


And the Stars Stood Still

by Afrokot



Category: Dragon Age: Origins, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Crossover, Drama, F/M, Gen, Humor, Mage Stiles, Papa Stilinski is named Elric and he is not a Sheriff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-18 06:19:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Afrokot/pseuds/Afrokot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dragon Age/Teen Wolf crossover</p><p>Ever since his first accidental magic killed his mother, Stiles has been afraid of using it, but with the Blight at his door, he is forced to reconsider.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Spark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [honeybearbee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybearbee/gifts).



> I'll add characters and relationships as they appear/develop in the story.

_"O Maker, hear my cry: Guide me through the blackest nights."  
\- Transfigurations 12:1_

**9:21 Dragon**

Stiles is eight when his mother dies. Dad says it's not his fault, but Stiles is little, not stupid, ok? He is not! He knows that fire started because of his spark. His mom is dead, and it's because of him.

He remembers mom saying not to be sad when she is gone, that she will return to be with the Maker again and will wait by his side for Stiles and Elric, but. _His mother is dead_ , and it's _because of him_. How can he be anything, but devastated? The weight of his guilt crashes his tiny shoulders. He imagines himself smashed into the ground, waits for it to finally break him, he deserves nothing else.

Elric finds Stiles in his mom's wardrobe, face buried in her tunic that still carries her smell: a mixture of Wildflowers, and Elfroot, and, of course, her favourite — Andraste's grace. He is crying, clutching coarse material, and wishing to bring his mom back with the sheer force of his will. Apparently, he has magic, maybe he can do it!

Sighing, Dad crouches beside him and pulls Stiles to his chest. The embrace is fierce, and for a while they do not speak. The room is silent, save for Stiles' occasional hiccuping. He's almost calmed down when his father starts speaking.

He tells Stiles things like 'it's not your fault' (But it is, says the voice in his head), and 'she loved you so much' (And you killed her, continues the voice), and 'it's fine to cry' (As if you have any right to it, scoffs the voice), and 'of course, I love you! Don't you ever think otherwise!' (Who would ever love a murderer?! says the voice), but when his father says 'it was her fate', it finally gets to him, and the voice in his head falls silent.

And as if transported back in time, Stiles suddenly hears his mom singing the Chant of Light (she sings him to sleep; new Verse every night, but never the full Canticle of Transfigurations). It is her favorite, the Canticle of Trials. Her voice is soft and quiet. It soothes his worries, and Stiles can almost see the light her words bring.

And then she's telling him about her visions, that fate is not written in stone and usually can be changed, but there are landmarks that can't be prevented or avoided, that sometimes _what will be, will be_.

Stiles is eight, but he thinks he understands it now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chant of Light](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Chant_of_Light)   
>  [Calendar](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Calendar)


	2. A Journey to the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the completed version of chapter 3. If you have already read the first part, click  
> [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/876597/chapters/8527270#part2)

_"Time is like wax, dripping from a candle flame. In the moment, it is molten and falling, with the capability to transform into any shape. Then the moment passes, and the wax hits the table top and solidifies into the shape it will always be. It becomes the past — a solid single record of what happened, still holding in its wild curves and contours the potential of every shape it could have held."_  
\- A Memory of Europe, Welcome to Night Vale  
 

Born in the occupation, growing up during the rebellion, Elric saw many atrocities committed by usurpers and their supporters alike. Crimes against common folk were an everyday occurrence, and the only existing law enforcement agency — the Templar Order — was doing nothing to rectify it.

Stripped of their lands and titles, his grandparents were brutally murdered before his mother’s eyes, which drove her to join the rebellion. Elric himself was orphaned just two months prior to the besieging of Denerim. He was ten years old when Maric the Saviour freed Ferelden from the rule of the Orlesian Empire.

Since the Grand Cleric of Ferelden still answers to the Divine in Val Royeaux (and the Chantry officially supported the Orlesian Empire), it is hard to place even the smallest amount of trust in their military order even now, years later, not to mention back then.

Shortly after reclaiming the throne, king Maric decreed the creation of the Ferelden Guards, an institution charged with the responsibility of keeping Fereldans safe. Elric hadn’t understood it until later, but that decision (probably made on Teyrn Loghain’s advice) largely divorced the Chantry from politics (and almost resulted in an Exalted March).

In one fell swoop king Maric divested the Templar Order of a great chunk of its power. Templars still have the authority over magical questions, demonic possession and apostasy, but investigation of crimes and contraband falls under the Ferelden Guards' jurisdiction. In the span of a few years the Guards' outposts could be found in all major settlements.

Ever since childhood, Elric wanted to make a difference. As soon as he turned sixteen, he left the Orphanage in Redcliff for Denerim, wishing to join the Ferelden Guards. The capital met him with grim news: after several months of struggling, the beloved queen Rowan had finally succumbed to the illness. The country was mourning.

Wandering through half-empty streets of the capital without a map and with just two coppers in his pocket, Elric had finally stumbled upon the Guards' headquarters by accident — he was going to see the Palace. It took Ser Landry, his future Drill Sergeant, one look at him — naive, in a mismatched patchwork of armour, with a rusty sword behind his back, and hopelessly idealistic — to enlist Elric immediately. And so his life as a Guard recruit had begun.

Between gruelling training sessions, indoor classes, and his duties at the compound, Elric had little to no time left to explore the city. On the rare day off he preferred to stay in the barracks with a book on Ferelden history or military tactics, borrowed from the Guards’ library while Ser Kolred, an ancient, half-deaf librarian, wasn’t looking.

Of course, it all changed the second year of his training. One fine evening, tired from hours spent with buckets of potatoes, Elric returned to his room in the barracks only to find the empty bunk next to his occupied by a younger boy with a lot of freckles and a pair of truly obnoxious ears.

“Oh, hullo,” greeted Elric the newcomer. “Ah borrowed yer book, hope ye dinnae mynd. Ah’m Kylon, by th' wey.” And with evident gusto he bit into an apple. A strangely familiar apple… An apple, which Elric had pilfered from the kitchens just that morning, and that along with the book was in Elric’s _closed_ chest!

Turned out, not only Kylon’s ears were obnoxious.

After a fistfight, a thorough chewing out performed by enraged Ser Landry, and a week of cleaning lavatories side by side, they actually became best friends.

* * *

On a fine day in the middle of Bloomingtide when all Fereldans celebrated prince Cailan’s fifth birthday, Elric sat in his favourite corner (behind the tall rack with healing and herbalism tomes) enjoying peace and quiet, which can be found only in libraries at early mornings.

“Here ye are!” That excited cry could belong only to one person in all compound. “Ah was looking for ye sin’ dawn! Ah heard from Greg, and he heard it from Leonas, who was told by Ser Corf, and _he_ saw it his-self or so he claims… There’s th’ Antivan show in th’ Market!” Kylon said at a near incomprehensible speed, and solely because of long exposure to this kind of speech pattern and dedication to the Sacred Laws of Frienddom (Kylon’s words, not his) Elric was able to understand it, albeit only just. “It’s here for th’ holiday ‘n’ will pro’ably leave th’morra! We _must_ go see it!”

Slowly, Elric marked the page he was reading and closed the book. “Good morning, Kyl. How nice of you to abide the rules and _keep your tone down_.”

“Pff, there is na one else but ye ‘n’ old Grumpy here. And he won't hear a Qunari battle cry were it hollered tae his ear.” Kylon grimaced. His dislike for Ser Kolred was known by every willing person, unwilling but unfortunate enough to be caught by Kylon person, and also by their horse and mabari, in a half-mile radius around the Guards’ headquarters.

‘Ye cannae spend all yer time here, ye will be covered in dust like yer precious tomes ‘n’ eventually grow mould, ‘n’ na lassie will ever look at ye and na cry for Templars because she will think yer an abomination, ‘n’ it is mah duty as yer best friend tae prevent that from happening! So c’moan already!” Kyl finally paused to breathe.

“No.”

“Oh, c’moan! You cannae abandon me in mah hour o’ need! Remember what happened last time ye left me tae mah own devices?” He arranged his features into a deceptively gullible face, designed to guilt trip Elric into agreeing.

“Yes, I remember it quite well. And I still insist you more than deserved the punishment you’ve got. Maker only knows what possessed you to climb into the Palace Garden.”

“Ah told ye, there are pounds o’ apples that just lie there rotting! Free apples that nobody bothers picking! It’s a damn crime against Apple Gods!” Kyl said with indignation.

“Once again, there’s no such thing as apple gods. As for fruits, you could buy them at the Market.”

“But poor apples!..” His protest trailed to a noise not unlike the sound of a mortally wounded nug in its final moments.

“Anyway, I also remember the last time we went out together.”

“Aye! And what fun it was!”

“That’s not how I recall it. Five hours sitting in a bush, waiting for the Templars to leave their post, just because you deemed it a good idea to collect flowers in the Chantry garden?”

“Roses were Deidre’s favourite.”

“She dumped you for a stable boy not a week later, and _I_ had to pull thorns out of my butt for just as long!”

“Well, there’s that.” Kyl sighed wistfully.

“You really should thank the Maker Ser Landry hadn’t heard of that. Otherwise, we would be still cleaning lavatories.”

“Aye, yes, Ah know. Ah regret mah indiscretions deeply, but now it’s absolutely different!”

“Uh-huh.” A well of skepticism, thy name is Elric.

“Na, seriously. It’s th’ Antivan show! There will be exotic dancers! And sword swallowers! ‘n’ even fire throwers! We cannae miss that!”

“Hmm… Still no.”

“Please?” Kyl, the rascal, made a foul blow — he employed his _truly pathetic_ face, and Elric resolve finally crumbled.

“If I say ‘yes’, will you stop bothering me for at least twenty minutes?”

“Maybe? It really depends on whether ye will go with me or nae.”

“Oh, fine, I’ll go if you let me finish this chapter on…”

“Yes!” Jumping, he fist pumped the air, jammed an elbow into the nearest shelf, hit _Healing Salves and Ointments_ and that resulted in an Avalanche of Literature.

“Ahem-ahem,” came the telltale sign of upcoming retribution from behind the shelves.

Nervously glancing over his shoulder, Kyl chewed on his lower lip. “Thanks, man! I’ll meet ye in twenty by th’ Gates!”

And Elric was left alone in the centre of a disaster zone to deal with the incensed librarian.

* * *

The Market District was full of people, colourful tents set up everywhere. Of course, the Antivan show attracted lots of gawkers, so the Market Square’s turned into a pickpocket’s heaven (more than it usually is, anyway). Elric wouldn’t be surprised if these traveling performers brought a flock of their own thieves with them.

He and Kylon had been wandering around for some time, mindful of their purses, when the ebb and flow of spectators gave way to an opening. A short distance ahead, people cheered in anticipation, and Kyl didn’t miss his chance to squeeze them forward, and suddenly Elric found himself looking directly into an intricate fruit basket with leaves and feathers adorning its rim. He blinked.

A large matron before him moved, and, without her extravagant hat to obscure his vision, Elric finally saw... He stared at the most beautiful girl in existence, so pure and bright, it stuck his breath in his throat. He coughed out a feather or two.

Later, if asked, he would tell it was that precise moment when he fell in love with her. She stood completely still in the crowd of dancing and clapping artists, surrounded by chaos like a reef in a raging storm — the only unwavering constant. Elric could have sworn he saw an ethereal glow lit her lovely face. Or maybe it was the fire she spat in the next moment as her part of the show.

Barefoot, she twisted and swirled, flames following her every move. Her dress — flowing red and orange fabric with stripes of black leather that made her figure look torch-like — completed the illusion of burning. It was fantastic. Beautiful and terrifying at the same time.

Elric watched in fascination for as long as he could. He traced the girl with his gaze, catching glimpses of a flower painted on her cheek. Then the dance was over. People laughed and applauded all around him, and sword swallowers filled the stage. Kyl shouted something in his ear, and when it went unheard over the noise, tugged him by the sleeve.

“That was awesome! ‘n’ tae hot for mah taste.” Kylon wiped his sweaty forehead, grimacing. ”Now I’m dying for a jar o’ cold, sweet ale. Let’s find a vendor, shall we?”

Still astonished, with a stunned smile, Elric agreed. “I’m going to marry her.”

“Wha? Th’ vendor?”

That finally snapped him out of his daze. “No, the fire dancer, you dolt!”

“Ah, ye mean th’ lassie with th’ show! Antivan beauty. Na offence, my friend, but nae with yer ugly mug. Na chance in Fade, I’d say. Ye should think o’ someone closer tae yer level. Hae ye considered a horse, perhaps? Or, better yet, a mabari? It’s a mighty patriotic choice!” He said, howling with laughter and barely dodging Elric’s swipe.

Elric grinned. “You just wait, you, rascal! See who will be the one laughing when you swap nuptial vows with a banshee.”

* * *

The next time Elric saw the Fire girl happened on a fine afternoon two weeks later. Earlier that day he received a message saying the book he ordered some months ago had arrived, and so he was on his way to the Wonders of Thedas, excitement punctuating his every step.

Was he paying more attention to his surroundings, surely, he would have noticed that the front door to the Gnawed Noble was opening, but alas. When a girl exited the tavern, in his hurry Elric hadn’t seen her until the very last moment, but by that point their collision was inevitable. With the full force of his haste, Elric gentlemanly toppled her over and sprawled half-across her lap.

Lying on the hard ground, the girl — impossibly — giggled. Elric scrambled away from her knees. Blushing all the way to his innards, he mumbled, “Hello. I’m _so_ sorry. I wasn’t looking. Please, accept my deepest apologies.”

The girl took his proffered hand, so that Elric could help her up. Still holding it, she smiled graciously. “Your clumsiness is forgiven. I’m Andraste.” And before he could say anything, she added, “Like the prophet.”

“And I—”

“Elric, I know.” She smiled at his shocked expression. ”I dreamt of you.”

Cautiously surveying the street, he chose his next words very carefully. “Are you a mage?”

Andraste arched an eyebrow. “And if I were, why would I tell you?”

“Because of my charming smile and utterly trustworthy face?” Elric smiled in the most winsome way he could manage, which basically was his rendition of Kylon’s grin. He expected to receive an eye-roll, but instead, she smiled enigmatically.

“Sometimes I dream, and it comes to pass. Other times it is no more that my imagination. Does it mean I have magic?”

It was a serious question with no easy answer. He chose the diplomatic way. “I believe all beings — except for dwarves, obviously — have the capacity to channel it to a certain extent.”

“Because we all are connected to the Fade,” understanding, Andraste continued his thought.

“Yes, exactly.”

She nodded as if confirming a hypothesis. Then, completely out of the blue, she said, “I like Wilds Flowers,” turned around and walked away without even a glance in his direction.

As parting words go, those were extremely bewildering. He watched her willowy figure until she disappeared around the corner. Only back at the compound, after spilling all the details of the encounter to Kylon (who frowned dubiously, said, “Are ye sure she is nae, you know, strange in th’ head?” and received a stink-eye in return), did Elric finally remember about his book.

* * *

In the following month Elric couldn’t forget about Andraste. Crazy or not, she wouldn’t leave his mind. He even went so far as to search Denerim for a Wilds Flower, but, most predictably, the Market failed to present it to him. Thus it was all the more astounding when he saw it lying inconspicuously on a vending cart. Not the actual flower, of course, though at first glance Elric thought exactly that.

It was a brooch made to look as one. The level of mastery its creator must have possessed to carve those exquisite details and etch ornaments into stone and gems so skillfully was unbelievable. His wonder must have been written all over his face.

“Excellent choice, good ser!” said an overly enthusiastic seller. “It is the pearl of my collection! This brooch was crafted by Master Garin, a famous jeweler renowned for his care for minutia. You wouldn’t find better quality in all Orzammar!”

Elric weighted the brooch in his palm, nodding in all the right places. Eyes glazing over, he listened to the never ending stream of embellishments that every customer who had ever dealt with a dwarf could recite in his sleep. It was more a matter of pragmatism than politeness: prices had a tendency to skyrocket if you ever interrupted the selling pitch.

When the dwarf finally finished, he asked, “Is it infused with lyrium?”

“Of course, of course!” the vendor waved his meaty hand like he was repelling a fly. “This precious little thing enchanted to augment a powerful element” — he paused for dramatic effect — “fire!”

Figures. Although, Elric found it rather fitting. “How much do you want for it?”

The dwarf looked him up and down. “Four gold and thirty-five silver pieces.”

“That’s highway robbery!” Although the price wasn’t that high, that was par for the course.

As rates went, it wasn’t outrageous, though it still was unaffordable on Elric’s stipend. His purse wasn’t exactly thin, but it didn’t host enough money as it was. If he wanted to buy the jewel, he’d need to find at least two more gold pieces somewhere, not to mention cut off all other expenses. No more rare books in the near future. He considered it, anyway.

Sensing the waning of his interest, the dwarf hedged, “But I see you are going to be our protector!” He indicated the insignia marking Elric as a Guard-to-be. “Maybe I can give you a discount.”

The haggling seemed to take an eternity and left Elric with a hoarse throat, frayed nerves, and indebted to Kyl till the next Age. In the end, they hashed out a grudgingly satisfactory deal.

* * *

Despite not seeing Andraste for months after that time near the tavern, Elric didn’t lose hope to meet her again. Feeling daft, he stubbornly continued to carry the brooch everywhere he went. Though, after an embarrassing incident during training session with his mates — not to be mentioned again. Ever! — he always ensured it was carefully hidden in his inner pocket.

One Harvestmere midday, having fulfilled an errand for Ser Kolred, Elric came by the Chanter’s Board and was idly perusing job offers. The weather was turning crisp. Elric shivered, assaulted by the blast of wind.

“Excellent day for a walk, isn’t it?” said a somewhat familiar voice beside him.

Distracted, he shrugged. “A bit cold, I think. I would rather be by the fire, but to each his own, as they say.”

“Then why are you here?”

The voice sounded genuinely curious, so he said, “Financial troubles. Need a job, you see.” He sighed. “Can’t afford a bloody pint of ale right now.”

The person hummed and started to sing. It wasn’t something Elric recognised. Probably, because the song wasn’t in Common, and he didn’t speak any other languages. Plucking a promising leaflet, he turned to leave and finally saw who stood next to him, looking at the Board.

“Oh, it’s you!”

Andraste paused mid-word and looked at him. “Yes?”

Elric blushed. “I was hoping to meet you again.” He fumbled for a brooch, forgetting where he put it. “I found a flower for you.” He missed his pocket twice, but the third try did the trick. “Here.”

“You should bring a bow with you,” she said, taking the brooch from him and pinning it to her scarf, bringing its ends together.

“What?”

“When you go the the Wilds,” she said, “bring a bow with you.” Then she laughed at his expression. “I just read the leaflet you tore off. It’s better to hunt wolves from a distance. Thank you, it belongs here.” That was about the brooch, or so he assumed.

“Oh.” Feeling like an idiot, he searched for something else to say. “Do you want to go to the Gnawed Noble?”

“I can buy you a pint.”

Elric blanched. “That’s not what I meant!”

“It’s fine.” She smiled. “Next time it will be your turn. Come.” And she was off to the tavern.

He didn’t really have a choice but to follow.

Fifteen minutes later, sitting in front of a fireplace with a mug in hand, he said, “So are you in Denerim for long?”

Eyes distant, she said, “I might be. Or maybe not. It is still uncertain.” Then she focused on Elric. “I’d like to be here more than there, but we are leaving in two days.”

He swallowed a mouthful of ale. “Will you return?”

“Everything returns one way or another, eventually, except for those who stay behind. Forgive me, I’m being confusing, but it is better than being confused, don’t you agree?”

Elric, being confused at the moment, did. “Certainly,” he said, nodding.

Andraste laughed, easy and carefree.

“Are you here with the Carnival? I haven’t heard of its arrival.”

“Sometimes I travel with them, yes, but not this time. They left for Free Marches.”

“Oh?”

“I will join them in Orlais.”

“Do you travel a lot, then? What’s it like?”

“What’s it like to stay in one place for longer than a fortnight?” She raised an eyebrow. “I imagine it’s the opposite of that.” She smiled. “I like traveling. Maybe I will like staying, too.”

Elric sipped the ale. Usually he was better at talking to girls. Not by much if he was being honest, but still. Andraste’s words left him bewildered and at a loss for what to say next. He found her endlessly fascinating.

“Personally, I like staying better than being constantly on the go,” he said. “We were moving often when I was very young. I remember it became tiring after a while.”

She nodded; the look in her eyes suggested she understood more than he was saying. “I’m keeping a friend company,” she said instead. “He has some business to attend to in many places.”

“Do you have a favourite destination?”

“Not yet. All were equally interesting until recently, but soon it will change. I might grow to love Denerim a lot.” She smiled again and stood up. “But now I should go. Don’t forget about the bow, Elric.”

“Wait!” He stood up as well. “Will I see you again?”

“After the creatures of the forest have lost their minds twice, you will. Until then.”

She left, footsteps so light she could have walked on air, leaving Elric with fluttering butterflies in his stomach.

* * *

As time went by, the weather became even colder. Thankfully, after performing several tasks for various citizens — one included hunting and skinning wolves in the Brecilian Forest — Elric scraped enough coins to not only pay his debt, but also buy a nice winter coat. He and Kylon celebrated First Day by going to the Festival that was held near the Royal Palace and participating in an ill-advised drinking game with some of the older cadets.

Usually Elric prefered to drink a couple of pints in one sitting, valuing a moderately clear head above all else, but with Kyl shouting encouragements into his ear… Well, it was hardly surprising that he woke up with a bone-splitting headache and little to no memories of the previous evening.

Lying on his side, fully clothed and with one boot dangling from his foot, he contemplated his decision-making skills. At the moment, he was finding them severely lacking. Then again, most of his ill-advised endeavours started with Kyl getting a bright idea, so maybe it wasn’t that bad…

He didn’t remember much of the day. Mostly, it was a haze of laughter and a feeling of ground shifting under his feet. He imagined that’s how being on a ship felt like and for the life of him couldn’t understand how anyone can enjoy that kind of travel. Horses are so much nicer, he decided, and friendlier. The old nag at the Orphanage had a soft nose, her breath tickled his palm when he fed her carrots.

“Oi! Yer up?” said Kylon in an awfully cheerful and loud voice.

Elric’s newfound appreciation of all things sober was put to a test. “Nrgh,” was all he could manage to say, attempting to crawl under his pillow and thinking, ‘Will you shut up? Please and thank you,’ Kyl’s way. Evidently, he needed to work on his telepathy some more as Kylon continued talking.

“Ah brought ye a remedy from th' Apothecary 'n' a slice o' apple pie from that new stall near th' Alienage! Didnae even spend yer winnin' on it, so dae nae say I’m nae a good friend.”

In a show of a truly mighty restraint, Elric didn’t throw the pillow at his face. Possibly, because he’d only just successfully positioned it over his ears.

Sensing that no coherent response was forthcoming, Kylon dumped the goods on Elric’s chest, the impact making them both wince. “Ah will leave it ower 'ere, then,” he said and tiptoed out of the room.

His second return to consciousness went a lot better. After downing the remedy and sending a thought of thanks to Kyl, Elric freshened up and, once more feeling like a human being, went in search of his friend. The pie was already cold — he guessed several hours passed since his first awakening — but tasted good enough. He made a mental note to thank Greg for telling them about that stall.

Outside, the weather was crisp, and, shivering, he instantly regretted forgoing a scarf. On the other hand, the winter air had a bite that helped to clear his head further. In the area near the garden he spotted Tomah and Alef, two of his drinking partners of the night before, sprawled on a low bench beside the gates.

“Finnaly! Ah was starting tae think ye went intae hibernation or something!” Kylon shouted from the bench on the other side of the gates.

Grinning, Elric went to join him. “Nah, just fell under a curse that could be lifted only by a fair maiden. But since you are no girl, or if you are, you are an ugly one—”

“Hey!”

“—so you don’t count, I had to break it myself with the power of my will.” He paused and then finished with a haughty expression, “It took time.”

Kyl snorted, rolling his eyes. “Aye, right. 'n' mah hangover remedy haes nothing tae dae wi' it.”

Elric smiled lopsidedly. “It helped. Thanks for that.”

“Dae nae mention it. Ah figured Ah owed ye one since 'twas mah idea in th' first place. Anywey, we won! Ne'er let it be said that Avvars dae nae hold thair drink!”

“I’m from Highever, not the Frostback Mountains.”

“Details, details! Speaking o' which, Ah a'maist forgot tae tell ye yer suppose tae catch up wi` yer lassie at th' Market afore th' evening bell.”

“What lassie?”

“Ye haev that many lassies lining up tae tak' ye for a walk?” Kyl raised both eyebrows, mockingly impressed. “Th' fire breathing one wi' a shoogly screw.”

“Oh! I thought I’ve dreamt that up. So we really met her yesterday?” At Kylon’s nod, he groaned. “Oh, Maker. This is so embarrassing. She must think I’m a total berk.”

“Well, she 'greed tae catch up wi' ye, so it's nae that ill. Though, when ye stood at one knee 'n' asked for her hand in marriage, Ah admit Ah was a bit surprised.”

“I did what?! I don’t remember it.” At the moment, Elric wanted to crawl back under the pillow and never again see the daylight.

“Cheer up, mate! She said tae ask her again when yer sober. Guess she really likes ye.” Smirking, Kyl patted him on the shoulder.

“Right.” Mortified, Elric glanced at the setting sun. “I better get going, then.”

Kyl grinned at him. “Good luck 'n' dinnae forget tae invite me tae yer wedding!”

Erlic punched his arm and hurriedly walked away, hearing Kyl’s laughter a good distance after he went through the gates.

As he hoped, Andraste was at the Market, wandering aimlessly between the stalls, sometimes stopping to get a closer look at a trinket that caught her fancy.

“I’m glad you are feeling better,” she said without turning to face him as soon as Elric walked up to her.

He coughed. “Yes, well. I’m glad you still came here after last night.” His skin felt hot, like he spent too long in the sun. Elric fidgeted. “Um. My apologies. I understand if it made you uncomfortable—”

“Oh, no, not at all! I liked it, it was amusing.” She smiled slightly. “Besides, you have a nice voice, even if the words of your serenade were a little jumbled.”

He was either running a high fever or blushing, he decided. The fever would have been preferable. “Right. Where would you like to go?”

“I’d like to watch sunset.”

He hummed, thinking. “We could go to Fort Drakon.”

When she nodded, he led the way. Of course, they couldn’t get inside the Fort, but there was a bench some distance away from it, hidden from the main road by an old oak tree. The sun just started to set, coloring the sky with orange and rosy shades. Sitting there, high up the hill, they could see most of Denerim bathed in soft light.

“The view is truly spectacular.”

Elric shrugged. “We discovered this place with Kyl on one of his ‘exploratory’ trips across the city.”

The chantry bell tolled, and Andraste hummed along with it; then she started to sing under her breath.

“What song is it?”

She paused to answer. “It’s the Chant of Light.”

Confused, Elric asked, “Shouldn’t you recite it instead?”

“I like it better this way.” She looked at the distant horizon dreamily. “I find the Chant soothing. Most of it, anyway. It’s like a song all people know and can sing to each other. Like a nursery rhyme.” And she sang a verse at a normal volume, voice soft and melodic.

They sat there until the sun disappeared completely. And when Elric escorted her to the Gnawed Noble, she agreed to meet again the next evening.

For two weeks that she was in Denerim, they met almost every day, sometimes going for a walk and other times staying in the tavern. Their time together quickly became the highlights of Elric’s days.

He soon learned that despite being named after the prophet, she wasn’t a Chantry devotee. When asked why, she pointed at the Tranquil who was sweeping the Chantry grounds. “I don’t believe the Maker supports slavery. I don’t, either.” Still, she liked to visit it and talk with sisters. “They often are the nicest people in any town,” she explained, “even if some of their believes are misguided.”

Andraste’s opinions on most subjects were often unconventional. She had a certain air of contained wildness about her. Like she could run, or laugh, or cry, or stab the nearest Templar in the eye with her dagger at any second and didn’t know herself what would it be until the very moment she did it. Like her actions were constantly surprising even herself. Being near her felt liberating and a tiny bit scary.

By the end of the second week, Elric had fallen in love so deeply, he couldn't see the light anymore.

“When will I see you again?” he asked on their last evening. They were walking through Denerim’s Gardens, making their way between trees that were bared of leaves by winter.

She looked at him with a slight smile on her lips. “When you close your eyes, I imagine.”

Elric took it in stride. “And in person?”

She tugged at the ends of her scarf, the Wilds Flower brooch once again pinning it together. “We will be back in the same amount of time, I hope.”

“So in two months?”

She nodded decisively. “Two months.”

* * *

Elric counted days to her return. At first, Kylon laughed and teased him incessantly every time he saw Elric cross a number on his calendar, but two months turned into three, and still Andraste was nowhere to be found. With each passing day Elric’s mood plummeted lower and lower. Teasing remarks gave way to concerned questions, and on the three and a half mark Kylon’s patience ended.

“A'right, snap out o' it,” he said, ungracefully landing on the bench next to Elric and snatching an apple out of the fruit bowl.

“Hmm?”

Elric listlessly poked at his porridge. Normally, he liked it very much. Their cook added dried fruits and berries, and even a dash of honey, which was like a trip to heaven for his taste buds, but today it was no different from the bland pottage that he ate thrice a day in the Orphanage for years. He didn’t have that much of an appetite, anyway.

“That, right 'ere. This haes tae end. Yer mooning isn’t going tae bring yer lassie back sooner, 'n' if ye starve tae death, it sure won’t mak' her happy.”

Privately, Elric agreed with Kylon, but… “What if she won’t come back at all?”

Exasperated, Kyl glanced upwards. “Oh, for Maker’s sake!” He sighed and said, not unkindly, “Ye move oan, obviously. Ye won’t be th' first nor th' last tae suffer from a broken heart.”

Without enthusiasm, Elric put a spoonful of porridge into his mouth.

* * *

As time passed, Summerday came and went completely unnoticed by Elric. When Bloomingtide turned into Justinian, he stopped counting days and refused to look at the calendar. Slowly, his mood improved. All in all, life went back on track. And then the Carnival came back to Denerim.

“Elric!” Disregarding all rules and regulations, Kyl sprinted through the library with great agitation.

Eric wondered what put him in such a state. Of course, it could very well have been the threat of Ser Kolred’s wrath. Occasionally, Kyl liked to pull a stunt and dash away just to get on his nerves, saying that it was to keep the old librarian on his toes.

“Elric!” Kylon repeated, skidding to a halt in front of Elric’s table. “Didnae ye hear about th' Antivan show?”

“Yes, I know there will be another show this evening. What of it?”

Perplexed, Kylon asked, “Then how come yer 'ere? Ah thought you’d be a' ower thair tents searching th' lassie.”

“I was going to wait until later.” Elric sighed. “But I see you are going to drag me there now anyway.”

Kyl almost looked affronted. “Weel, efter all that time spent brooding, ye should at least ask why she weren’t back sooner. That’s why Ah’m ‘ere, actually: th’ lassie’s waiting for ye.”

“What, here?”

“No, ye dolt. At the gates.”

“Oh. Um.” Suddenly in a much brighter mood, Elric looked around. The table before him was covered with books and parchments, his quill and inkwell carefully laid to the side. “You wouldn’t mind?..” He gestured at the mess.

“Ah’ve got it covered.” Kylon waved him off with a smile. “Go speak wi' yer lassie.”

Elric didn’t ran into the courtyard at full speed, instead, he walked there, using the time to calm his wildly beating heart. Andraste stood under the blooming ash tree, her hair longer and skin tanned. She was watching a squirrel in its branches, but as Elric approached, she turned to face him.

All his mental preparations went out the window. He thought he was getting over her? Hah, it was no more true than Kyl’s claims that he doesn’t really need water, ale will do, thank you.

She smiled at him. “You are well.”

“Yes, thank you. You look nice,” he said.

Andraste caught his gaze. “When you come to the show, I will tell you the future.”

Elric blinked. “Can you tell who I should bet on in a race?”

Her face absolutely serious, she said, “Why, you should always bet on the winner!” And then she laughed. “I can tell you only what’s written on your palm. And that, I’m afraid, is not so detailed.”

“Ah. That’s a pity, I wouldn’t mind getting a fortune,” he said with a rueful smile.

“I’m sorry for not returning earlier,” she said, placing her hand over his heart. “I regret the sadness you felt.”

Elric shrugged. “You are here now.”

“I am.” Going on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek. “Tonight I will do palm reading.”

* * *

“Well? What took her so long?” said Kylon as soon as he saw Elric.

“I didn’t ask,” he said with a wide grin.

Kyl stared, then shook his head. “Bloody hell, mate, yer doomed.”

He spent the rest of the day in a daze and, according to Kylon, smiling like an idiot. This time when evening came, Elric dragged Kyl to the Market. They found Andraste near a stall with toys. She sat at the small table, intently looking at a woman’s palm and saying something in a low voice. The woman oohed and aahed, but as Andraste spoke, her expression lightened, as if a heavy burden was lifted from her shoulders. She thanked Andraste profusely and put a sovereign in the jar.

Kyl grinned and patted his shoulder. “Now Ah can rest assured you won’t ever starve.”

Elric elbowed him in return and went to Andraste.

“Hello again. Which hand do you need?”

“It matters not. Which one do you like more?”

“I like them both equally, I suppose.” He shrugged, but gave her his left hand.

Silently, Andraste traced her index finger over his palm.

“So?”

She looked up. “You will live a long life.”

Curious, Eric asked, “How can you tell?”

“See here” — she tapped one of the lines — “is your life line.”

Elric had to admit, It was a rather long line.

Andraste continued. “The fate doesn’t control you strongly. I see several crucial points when your decision will decide your future.” She tapped three times on different lines crossing the one she called life and then twice on fate. “It can change.”

“What about love life?”

For some reason, when she smiled, it was tinged with sadness. “You love deeply.” She paused. “And your heart will be broken, once.”

He swallowed. “Right.” Then, to talk of something else, he asked, “What about you? What does your future holds? Did you read it as well?”

“I didn’t need to. I know how it will end.” And she showed Elric her own palm. The life line didn’t reach even half-way across it.

Elric stared.

“‘tis fate. Some things are inevitable." She shrugged, unconcerned. “I know how and when I will go to the Maker, but I can choose where,” she said, closing her hand. “Would you like to walk through the Gardens tomorrow?”

Perturbed, Elric nodded.

“Good.” She smiled again; this time is was a happy expression. “I decided to stay in Ferelden.”

In Elric’s opinion, that was the start of his courtship.

At first, Andraste stayed at the tavern, but soon she rented a room from a widow. She took a lot of different jobs, asking the bartender at the tavern for work or picking something from the Chanter’s Board. She was skilled with swords, could sew and cook, and was an excellent singer.

During that summer they often went hunting in the Brecilian Forest.

One night, sitting near campfire, Elric asked her about her life before the Carnival.

Andraste lowered her voice to a whisper. “My father was a Crow,” she said and nodded with meaning.

“Was?”

“Crows do not fly for long. Successful ones are pecked by their brethren, others — swallowed by the job.” She shrugged as if it was just a fact of life, not worth dwelling on. She accepted a lot of things the same way you’d think of the weather: if you can’t change it, no point in shouting at the sky.

She was right about his love — she was right about many things — the more he got to know her, the stronger it became. And so when August stepped back for Kingsway, Elric asked for her hand. This time he was stone cold sober.

He was so nervous, he stammered through the whole proposal. She laughed and said, “Yes.”

They wed as soon as his education was completed, just before Satinalia, at the last day of Harvestmere. It was a quiet affair, attended only by Elric’s closest friends — Kyl, obviously, among them — and Andraste’s friend Elaudio, with whom she travelled for years before settling down in Denerim. He was more of a father figure to her than her actual father.

Elric was appointed to Lothering, and they moved there after the week of Satinalia festivities. It turned a new leaf in his life, but Elric still keeps in contact with Kylon.

He and Andraste had a good life together; they were happy. Now, ten years later, the time had finally come, and Andraste was dead. Although he knew the day was coming, he still wasn't prepared to say the final goodbye. And suddenly, Elric felt utterly helpless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bloomingtide - the 5th month of the year;  
> Justinian - the 6th month;  
> August - the 8th month;  
> Kingsway - the 9th month;  
> Harvestmere - the 10th month.
> 
> Satinalia is a holiday that is accompanied by wild celebration, the wearing of masks, and naming the town fool as ruler for a day; there’re large feasts and gift giving. It’s celebrated on the first day of Firstfall, the 11th month of the year.
> 
> More on the calendar here.
> 
> Kylon's Scottish accent courtesy of [this translator](http://www.scotranslate.com/#). I used it sparingly.


	3. The Aftermath

_"Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure."_  
\- Trials 1:10  
 

Stiles waits for the Templars to come. It has been three days since the fire, surely it is time for him to go? He is not a fool — he knows that magic is dangerous, and now _he_ is a danger to himself as much as to others. He waits for grim-faced, heavily armoured men who will drag him to the Tower, like they did with that elven girl last summer and with the Anders' boy the summer before that.

They screamed and cried, calling their parents. The girl's dad just stood by, doing nothing. Stiles wonders what will his father do when it is his turn? Will he try to stop the Templars like Mrs. Anders? He thinks his mom would have tried to hide him, maybe, but… But.

Days pass, and nobody comes.

* * *

It has been three days since, trapped in a barn, Andraste was burnt alive. Elric can't sleep. He should have been able to save her, should have been there. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees it so vividly as if the images are seared on the inside of his eyelids. _Fire, fire everywhere; people are running with buckets, trying to put out the flames; Stiles' crying and trying to help… And her screams._ He came too late. Elric can't sleep at all.

Days pass. He goes to work, automatically performs his duties, nods at condolences, hugs his son before bed… and doesn't let go till the morning light. After a week with no visit from the Chantry, it's become apparent nobody suspects Stiles has magical abilities. Elric breaths a little easier.

Being an officer of the law, he’s sworn to uphold it not to break at will, but it is his _son_. After losing Andraste, he isn't planning to part with Stiles just because of some ridiculous custom and inane fear. Mages need proper education, and it needs to be done in schools without jailers. Nobody deserves to be locked up in prison with life sentence just for being who they are, for the way they are born.

If in order to be with his son, to spare him an ugly fate of a convict who lives in a constant danger of beheading, Elric is to harbour an apostate, then so be it. He was prepared to make a run for the woods on the second day after the fire.

* * *

A week passed in a haze. It is a sunny day when they go to the Chantry to attend the Morning Sermon. Despite the soothing familiarity of smouldering incense, it’s becoming hard to endure constant pitying looks, covert glances and whispers. And while Elric doesn’t doubt the majority of villagers mean well, for some their grief is just a source of entertainment, one more reason to wag their tongues. Subjected to their scrutiny, Elric dearly wishes he had the foresight to leave Stiles at home.

Revered Mother Demelza, an old, kind woman whose memory still holds stories of Elric’s childhood, ends her speech with the Canticle of Trials. Slowly, she walks down the aisle.

It is only when Demelza is asking wide-eyed Stiles how he liked the sermon, Elric finally becomes aware of her presence. He bows respectfully. “Your Reverence.”

“Elric, it is good to see you in the home of the Maker again.”

Although it doesn’t sound reproachful, guilt floods him. They hadn’t been to the Chantry since the funeral rites. Swallowing, he looks away.

“None of that, my boy.” Clasping his hand in hers, skin papery dry, the Revered Mother says, “There is no wrong way to grieve. Just remember that we are here to offer what solace we can.” She pauses to catch Stiles’ gaze, but he continues to studiously avoid it. “To both of you. If you need any help, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Elric has to blink a few times — his vision went blurry. He bows once more. “Thank you, Your Reverence. We are both very grateful.”

Stiles, Elric notes uneasily, still hasn’t uttered a single word outside of relative safety of their home. With a sudden jolt he understands the look in Stiles’ eyes on the steps to the Chantry — fear.

“Will you accept my blessing?”

“We will be honoured, Your Reverence.”

“The path of righteousness is full of hardship, but the Maker smiles upon its travellers. Watch over their path, O Maker. Give them light in darkness.”

In the safety of his mind, Elric acknowledges his relief. He was a little afraid the Revered Mother would bless them with the name of his late wife.

On the way back home, Stiles’ hand is clutching his almost painfully. He decides it is time to talk about the future.

* * *

As soon as the door closes behind his back, muting all sounds of a busy village to a dull murmur, never one to mince words, Elric asks, “Were you expecting to be left in the Chantry?”

Though Stiles remains silent, it is enough of a confirmation when he looks away. Elric berates himself for being so blind and not realising it sooner. Sighing, he scoops his son into his arms. Stiles instantly hugs him back, which can’t be comfortable at all given that Elric is still wearing his armour. For a few long moments they just breathe. Hidden from the outside world, they find strength to live within each other.

Finally, Elric says, “I will not allow anyone to take you away. Not the Chantry or Templars. They will have to fight me first, and I am, as you know, the mightiest warrior of Ferelden!”

Stiles’ voice is slightly muffled against his chest. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“They won’t hurt me. If there is even a hint of a possibility, we will run. Nothing bad is going to happen, I promise.”

When his son speaks again, it is in a tone so quiet, Elric has to strain his ears. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won't.” The response is immediate; there is not a shadow of a doubt, no room for hesitation.

“But…”

“There is no buts, Stiles,” Elric says. “You didn’t hurt you mum. It was an accident, an unfortunate turn of circumstances.” He sighs, tiredly. “It was her fate. I wish you would stop blaming yourself for it was not your fault.” Maybe with time, he will.

The necessity of hiding magical abilities goes without saying: from now on secrecy is a matter of survival. They can’t risk confiding in anyone, but Stiles needs training, guidance along the rocky path of sorcery. As his father, it is Elric’s duty to provide a solution. And the decision is made.

Firmly, he says, “Tomorrow I will go to Flemeth.”


	4. Korcari Wilds

_“The owls are not what they seem.”_  
\- The Giant, Twin Peaks  
  


Though the contingent of the Guards is not large, Elric has no trouble securing an extended leave. He has been a Guardsman for almost thirteen years and is in good standing with the Captain.

He leaves Stiles under the care of the elder Miriam. Andraste once said that even if she looks older than dirt, that woman will outlive them all. Elric’s lips twist at the cruel irony. Still, Stiles is in good hands with her. He is certain nothing bad is going to befall his son while he is away.

Elric visits Andraste’s grave. He debates the merits of talking to her, but in the end decides against it. If she can see him from her place at the Maker’s side, she knows what he has to say anyway. He places new flowers under the headstone, brushes his fingers over her name, and, with a heavy heart, silently promises to take care of their son. Shouldering his backpack, he leaves the graveyard to start a long journey down the Imperial Highway. Somewhere in the Korcari Wilds there is a witch he has to find.

The Highway is well travelled; his walk is swift, no bandits dare tread where the Guards patrol. He greets passing acquaintances, nodding and waving when they salute him with their swords. Twice he even stops to talk.

The first time he is stopped by Ser Leonas, who asks after his family. Elric hasn’t seen him since his last visit to Lothering, about three months ago. They had a great time reminiscing the days of their youth in Denerim, exchanging news of their mutual friends while ale flowed in abundance.

Andraste, he remembers, laughed at him when he stumbled back home, singing a bawdy song he heard in the tavern, and told him not to wake up Stiles. She liked Leonas and made him promise to come by more often. Leonas liked her as well; everyone did, really.

When Elric tells him of her death, he says, “The sun was dimmed with her parting,” closing eyes and lowering his head. He doesn’t say ‘sorry for your loss’, and Elric is absurdly grateful for that. They part amiably soon after.

The second time he sees a familiar face, it’s on the third day of travel, more than half-way to Ostagar. He is deeply surprised to meet Chanter Devons here, so far away from Lothering. Of course, asking him what he is doing here was a moot point, Elric thinks, listening to Devons reciting the Chant. He, unlike Stiles, doesn’t find trying to converse with the man funny.

Andraste, on the other hand, loved talking with him, quoting the Chant right back. It was great fun, she said. Elric sighs and one more time tells of her death.

“The one who repents, who has faith,  
Unshaken by the darkness of the world,  
She shall know true peace,” Devons cites.

Elric nods and wishes him a safe journey. Abruptly, he realises that he needs to send word to Kylon and makes a mental note to write to his friend at the earliest opportunity.

He makes it to Ostagar at noon of the fifth day. The ancient fortress looms over the road, magnificent and sad in its abandonment. He stops to admire it from a distance, then steps off the road and walks into the Wilds. No one knows where Flemeth lives; there are only rumours of the great and terrible Witch, but people say she always knows when you are looking for her.

He isn’t sure how to go about it, but he also has no desire to wander aimlessly for Maker knows how long when he is missed at home. So, feeling like a fool, Elric says, “I’d like to speak with the Witch of the Wilds, please.” His voice is loud and precise, it carries across the forest, and he hopes that somehow the message will get to her. Then he does wander aimlessly, repeating his request from time to time.

Once, he is sure he sees a rabbit looking at him strangely. Maybe it will hop to Flemeth, he muses, then snorts at the notion. How will it tell her anything? A crow caws overhead. Elric looks up and is startled, meeting its gaze. The bird watches him with too intelligent eyes. He raises a hand to wave at it, but the crow flies up, having seemingly lost interest in a strange human.

It would be a pleasant walk, he thinks some time later, going around a swamp, if not for the bloody cold, mist, and midges. Here what would be a balmy Bloomingtide evening in Lothering feels like a Wintermarch night. The dampness doesn’t help any. Every so often he sees a Wilds Flower. They are in abundance here; it is yet one more reminder of what is forever lost.

Tired and hungry, he plans to make camp as soon as he can find a secure spot. He has already had to refuse becoming a dinner twice and doesn’t want to fight wolves again, especially not in the middle of the night. He glimpses a promising place between roots of a huge tree and walks to it, but as he sets backpack to the ground, he hears a rustling sound.

Cautiously turning, he unsheathes his sword. A wolf is standing on the fallen log no more than five steps away. Swallowing, Elric adjusts his stance in preparation for a fight, but the wolf doesn’t move. Their gazes lock, and a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold runs down his back. No mere animal can possess the intelligence that he sees in this creature.

The wolf seems to study him, evaluating his worth. Studying it right back, Elric patiently waits for it to come to a decision. It’s lean and obviously young, with paws that are too long for its frame. Beautiful, he decides, admiring its black fur and bright yellow eyes. Then he says so.

Startled, the wolf blinks, and the moment is broken.

When it doesn’t move from its place, Elric raises an eyebrow and says, “So?”

The wolf snorts — amused, Elric thinks — and walks away, but soon stops and glances back at Elric. Then it shakes its head in a motion that, if it were a human, Elric would interpret as an invitation to follow. It is, however, an animal.

“What?”

Either his mind is playing tricks, or the wolf has just rolled its eyes at him. Great, even an animal finds him exasperating. Maybe Flemeth can speak with animals, he muses, or just enchant them in some way. The wolf repeats the gestures, this time slowly and deliberately telegraphing the movement, as if for a small and not very bright child.

Instead of getting offended, Elric grins — for the first time in days — and shoulders his backpack. “All right, lead the way.”

The wolf huffs and disappears into the thicket. Alarmed, Elric rushes after it only to discover that it's waiting on a hidden trail with a distinctly smug expression on its muzzle. Elric smiles at it.

“You are not just a wolf, are you?”

He decides to take the flick of its ear as an answer.

The wolf trots ahead, then waits for Elric to catch up, and as soon as he does, starts moving again. They travel this way for some time when Elric says, “You know that we can actually go together, right? The path is wide enough.” He pauses. “And I’m not going to harm you if that’s your concern.”

The wolf slants him a disdainful look but slows down to a walk. Resisting the urge to pat its head, Elric smiles.

The way takes the better part of three hours. The wolf leads him across and around swamps and ancient chasind ruins, choosing tracks Elric barely can see. Several times he spots the same markers and a suspicion that the wolf deliberately wants to confuse him forms in his mind.

It has become completely dark a little over an hour into the journey, and Elric stops to light the torch. The wolf goes ahead, not realising that its human companion stayed behind, and has to trot back.

“You are almost invisible in the darkness,” he says to it. “Besides, I need light to see the way.”

In the warm glow of the burning wood, it scowls at Elric, annoyed.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you want me to stumble into a bear trap,” he says with a lopsided grin.

The wolf huffs, its eyes glinting in the light.

Finally, walking down a narrow path, they reach a small patch of land in the middle of a swamp. He can see a hut, but not much else. The mist is especially thick here. Turning to the wolf, he says, “Thank you.” And discovers that his guide has already disappeared into the night.

He sighs and goes to knock on the door. It opens before he has a chance, though. A woman throws it open. She stand on the steps, illuminated by the light coming from the hut, and just for a moment Elric sees two curving horns on her head. He blinks, and the vision is gone.

“Why do you seek old Flemeth?" she asks in an ageless voice that can belong to a young woman or to a hag, her face hidden by the darkness of the outside world.

“I was hoping to ask for advice.” He steps closer, and the light of his torch dispels the shadows.

“Don’t you know what people tell of terrible Witch of the Wilds? She is worse than a demon they say, she will demand your soul as payment,“ the woman says with a slight curiosity to her voice. She is past her prime, but her face still holds the marks of beauty, black hair turning grey at the temples. Her simple clothes are clean and lack embellishments. She doesn’t look like the terrifying witch of legends.

“People say a lot of things, not all of them worth believing. Besides,” he says, glimpsing a vaguely familiar face in the window and taking a gamble, “I know your daughter.” He shrugs. “You can’t be that bad.”

The witch cackles, throwing her head back. The sound seems too loud; it disturbs the quiet of the night. Briefly, she looks back inside the hut.

“I heard about your wife. Oh, the irony!”

Elric can’t decide what her tone is suppose to mean. He chooses to think it is sad, just for the peace of his mind — he doesn’t want to bristle and alienate a powerful mage when he still needs her help. Maybe not ever.

“Come inside,” she says, opening the door wider. “We are letting all the heat out.”

The hut is small but not claustrophobically so. Two beds stand on one side, a wooden chest beside each; a dresser in the corner; a table near the window, white cloth laid over it; on the walls there are shelves with pottery; and a large pot with something bubbling is over the fire; a straw screen in the back hides the rest of the room.

Everything smells strongly of elfroot and something else that he can’t identify, sweet and rich. Looking up, he sees dried herbs that hang from the beams.

“Well? Say hello to our guest, girl,” says Flemeth to a young woman that he saw earlier.

She still stands near the window, one hand clutches the hem of her tunic, the other limp by her side. Startling yellow eyes meet his. “Hello.”

Flemeth closes the door with a deliberately loud thud. “You wanted my advice? Ask away, but be prepared to pay the price.”

Elric turns to face her. “I’m looking for an apostate.”

“Oh? Whatever for?” She arches a brow. “No one can bring your wife back, not even a demon.”

He sighs, irritated. “I wouldn’t do it even if it was possible, Andraste wouldn’t want that. I need a teacher for my son.” Despite being in a company of a known witch, the confession feels like he has to rip it out of his throat, along with tongue and vocal cords. He swallows.

“Andraste’s son is a mage,” Flemeth says with delighted incredulity and cackles again.

He can see her point but finds her reaction distasteful. Her daughter, he notices, stays silent.

“I know who can help your plight,” Flemeth says when her laughter died down. “You will go to the Chasind in the south and speak with the shaman. He won’t turn you away.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Guardsman.” Something ancient, inhuman lurks in the depths of her eyes. “I have no need of you right now; you will, however, owe me a favour.”

“You have my word.”

“When the time comes, be sure to fulfill the promise.” Though she says it in an even tone, the words sound ominous.

Elric nods, vowing to never regret this decision, no matter what the which asks of him. “Where do I need to go?”

“Bah, we are not savages! Stay the night, and tomorrow Morrigan will show you the way.”

Flemeth’s daughter — Morrigan, he corrects himself — starts to say something, but the witch shushes her with a sharp word.

“Serve the stew, girl, it is ready.”

* * *

He sleeps on the floor near the fireplace and dreams of yellow eyes and wildly beating wings. When he wakes, Flemeth is already gone. Morrigan warms yesterday's stew while he freshens up behind the hut; the morning air is clear of the mist. They eat in silence and soon are ready to go.

For the first half-hour of the journey Elric looks around, trying to impress landmarks into his still not fully awake mind. Morrigan projects an aura of distress, like she wants to say something but doesn’t know how to start.

“Lovely weather,” he says.

She glances at him, then look straight ahead. “I knew your wife. She was… nice. I regret her fate.”

It is like a gust of Haring wind in the face. The loss of Andraste feels like a gaping wound in his heart. He does not, can never forget but the only way he can function is by not actively thinking about it. Too little time has passed.

“Was she a mage?”

“No. Why do you think so?”

Morrigan shrugs. “She talked to me at the market. Sometimes she said strange thing. Besides, magic is often hereditary.”

Elric pauses but doesn’t see any harm in her knowing, so he says, “She was gifted — or cursed — with prophetic dreams.”

For a moment Morrigan goes completely still, and Elric barely stops in time to avoid colliding with her back. Then she resumes walking, a twig breaks under her foot. “And her dreams always came to pass?” she says in a seemingly disinterested voice.

Andy must have told you something unexpected, he thinks but doesn’t say. “As far as I know, yes.”

They fall silent again. A bird chirps overhead, he can hear a splash made by a frog’s leaping into the swamp to their right. Sunlight peeks through the dense foliage. The forest is peaceful, he can see no sign of danger. Morrigan is lost in thoughts, and Elric returns to the landmarks.

Some time later, he says, “So you are a mage, too, like your mother?”

She seems cautious, ready to bristle. “What of it?”

He decides to be blunt. “Do demons bother you often?” Only when it’s gone does he notice the tension — by its sudden absence.

Her face relaxes imperceptibly, like she was expecting some nasty remark instead of a simple question. “Not overly so, but yes, they do.” She turns to glance at him, her long braid flies over her shoulder. “They whisper promises.” Her voice is calm, serious. “They assume familiar faces. When I was young, there were times when I couldn’t tell a demon right away.”

“How do you resist them?”

“Demons lie. I have no need of their false aids.” She stops and looks at him fully. “Tell your son that all their promises will come twisted and perverted, and that they cannot give him what he wants.”

He shivers, feeling like that time Kylon shoved a lump of fresh snow under his collar. “Thank you, I will.”

They reach their destination shortly after midday. Morrigan stops, putting a hand up. Elric looks at her, but before he could ask anything, two men appear from behind the trees, swords drawn. They wear furs over leather armour and warpaint on their severe faces.

“Speak,” one of them says, voice low and commanding.

“The Witch of the Wilds sends her regards,” Morrigan says with dignity worthy of a queen.

The man considers it, staring at her without blinking. Then he nods. “Come.”

They are escorted through a peculiar settlement — it’s made up of houses and huts that are built on stilts and sit on top of each other — to a door with the image of an eye. The speaker goes inside, leaving his companion with them.

Morrigan keeps a lofty expression, though Elric catches her casting surreptitious glances at their surroundings. With a mental shrug, he openly looks around. Though here and there he sees a head full of ginger or black hair, the Chasind, he discovers, are prevalently blonde. They look tough and austere, much like the climate of the land they inhabit.

The man that walks out of the house is the polar opposite of anyone Elric has seen so far of this tribe. He is bald and bare faced when all others are long haired and have beards to rival the elders’ in Lothering. His skin is dark, darker than Elric has ever seen. He stands out like a mabari in a field of fresh snow.

“Greetings.” His voice is mild, gentle even, but his eyes are wild as the force of nature. “What can I do for Flemeth’s daughter?”

“I am a mere guide through the Wilds.” Morrigan inclines her head in Elric’s direction. “‘tis his plight you can help to resolve.”

He turns his gaze to Elric. It feels like he is looking straight into his soul.

“My son is a mage,” Elric says without preamble, figuring that it’s better to be frank, “and he needs a teacher.” The shaman says nothing, so he continues, “And the Circle is not an option. Flemeth said you could help. Will you?”

For the longest moment he studies Elric, and Elric is afraid he will turn him down. The shaman, however, seems to make a different decision. Wordlessly, he gestures at the door, inviting them in.

After a lengthy discussion, they come to an agreement. Elric is to provide the tribe with grain and flour, a valuable commodities in these parts, and in return the shaman, whose name is Alan Deaton, will take Stiles as an apprentice. The schedule takes the longest to work out. The distance between the settlement and Lothering makes it hard to travel back and forth too often, and Elric refuses to part with his son.

In the end, he concedes that Stiles will have to stay here for a month because, as Deaton points out, untrained, he is too vulnerable to demons. After that his study sessions will become less prolonged — two weeks every three months. It is not perfect, but for now, it’s the best option.

Through it all, Morrigan, his ‘mere guide’, stands beside Elric. She doesn’t contribute to the discussion. Despite her neutral, edging toward bored expression, he suspects that she listens very attentively. There is no apparent reason for her interest, but he doesn’t mind her presence, indulging her curiosity.

They part with the shaman with a promise of return in two weeks’ time. A warrior will meet Elric and Stiles near Ostagar and show them the way. It’s amiable enough, though he gets the feeling that the warrior in question, the same taciturn blonde man that escorted them to Deaton, isn’t very happy with his assignment.

He and his silent companion lead Elric and Morrigan back the same way they came. Word of their visit must have gotten around because there are a lot more people — and stares — this time. It makes him slightly uncomfortable, but he supposes that they don’t have a lot of newcomers, so he shrugs it off.

Morrigan, on the other hand, seems deeply uncomfortable with the attention but quickly hides it under facade of indifference. Her aloofness is back with a vengeance.

“Thank you for your help,” he says when they are outside of the settlement. He means it as a goodbye, prepared to make his way through the Wilds, but she surprises him with an offer to show him the way to Ostagar.

“I thought you’d just point me in the right direction.”

She lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I have time.”

Not one to look a gift mabari in the mouth, he thanks her again. Lost in thoughts, he doesn’t attempt to start a conversation until he sees familiar landmarks. They are close to Ostagar, he knows, and it took only a four hour walk.

“Impressive! I thought we were much farther. You must know the woods extremely well.”

Looking pleased with his praise, she says, “I lived here my whole life.”

He thinks about it for a while. “Does it get lonely?”

Morrigan twirls the end of her long braid and taps the ground with her staff. It’s simple and could be easily mistaken for a walking stick. “I have animals to keep me company. And sometimes I visit Lothering.”

It’s as good as an admission. Thinking about Morrigan living with a mother that doesn’t even call her by name, he feels sadness for her. The trips for supplies must be the only way she comes into contact with the outside world.

“Well, when you come to Lothering, if you don’t see me on the streets, stop by the compound to say hello.”

“I will,” she says after a pause. They part ways shortly after that.

Halfway to Lothering Elric meets a traveling merchant that offers him a ride in his cart. It speeds his return by a day, though it still feels like too much time was spent away from home, from his son. With the question of a teacher resolved, worry over Stiles has free reign of his mind, and when he finally sees the familiar shape of the mill, he barely stops himself from jumping off the cart and sprinting to Miriam's house. He knows it won’t be faster, but Delvin’s horse seems to slow down more and more with each step.

They enter Lothering, and he thanks Delvin for the ride and for the sweets and books he bought off him on the way here. The walk isn’t long — their village is relatively small in size — and soon he stands on the elder’s porch, ready to knock. He doesn’t need to do it. Like an uncoiling spring, Stiles barrels out of the doorway and jumps into his arms, almost bringing Elric down. He hugs his son back, smiling into his hair.

* * *

Elder Miriam is a nice woman, but she is so old and _boring._

Stiles has been quiet and withdrawn for the first week, battling with the voice in his head that made a comeback to taunt him with promises and possibilities and mourning his mother, but his capacity for emotional suffering isn’t endless, and eventually his mind jumped to other subjects. It doesn’t mean that he forgot about her or that it doesn’t hurt anymore. He is quite sure the pain will always be here, in the depths of his heart, waiting for a quiet moment to remind him of its presence. But in the last three days his energy returned with a vengeance, and he couldn’t sit still for more than a minute. Or so Miriam says.

She insists on staying indoors despite the nice spring weather. And so Stiles stays cooped inside her stuffy little house, where he can’t turn without sending some knickknack tumbling to the ground. It’s not on purpose, and no matter how he tries, something always seems to find its way under his elbow. At least, she isn’t angry with him. Though it makes him question her sanity all the more — it would make sense to send him outside. It’s not like the streets are dangerous, he scoffs inwardly. Well, they are, but only when he imagines that it’s the time of the Occupation.

In order to minimise the area of destruction — Miriam’s words, all right? — Stiles spends a lot of the time sitting near the window overlooking the main street. That’s how he sees his father coming. He jumps from his seat, inadvertently overturning the chair. Something crunches under his foot, and he grimaces, knowing that yet another trinket has died the death of the brave. He runs to the door just in time to open it before his father can knock and can’t decide what to say first. There are ‘What took you so long?’ and ‘How did it go?’ and ‘Did you find her?’ and ‘What’s she like?’ to choose from, but what makes it past his lips is a quiet, “I missed you.”

* * *

The preparations for the journey take the rest of the day, and in the morning they are on the road. Dad takes the Guards’ horse, one of the few they have for long-distance patrols. Apple is a gentle creature, the calmest horse there is, and Stiles falls in love with him instantly. He stuffed his pockets with chopped apples and carrots before they left and now feeds the horse at every opportunity. Dad looks at him with a wistful smile.

They spend the night at the clearing by the side of the road that’s used by Guards and rare travellers so often, it has a stone circle for fire with a pile of wood stacked by its side.

Dad snorts at his gawking. “It’s convenient.”

With a shrug, Stiles plops down on the sleeping bag. After just a day on horseback he is so sore, he thinks he will never get up. Dad has other plans. He tells him to stretch and doesn’t take no for an answer. Grumbling, Stiles complies. He does feel marginally better after that. Maybe because he is so tired, or maybe because his father is next to him, but this is the first time in a long while when he doesn’t have nightmares.

They reach Ostagar by the next midday and have to leave the horse at the small Guards’ outpost. The fortress is huge and impressive even from the distance, and more so up close. Some crumbling walls and scorch marks just add character, Stiles decides.

“That’s fast,” Stiles says to Dad when they walk away from the Highway and into the Wilds. “Why didn’t you take Apple the first time?”

Dad scratches at his neck, looking to the side. “I didn’t think of it,” he says at length.

“That’s fine, Dad,” Stiles says, adopting a sage expression. “We all have our stupid moments.”

Dad laughs.

“What did you tell the Guardsmen?” He couldn’t eavesdrop, reasoning that saying goodbye to Apple is more important, and anyway, Dad will tell him everything interesting.

“I’m taking you on a hunting trip.”

Stiles looks at him like he is being silly. “I’m eight, Dad.”

With a straight face, Dad says, “It is never too early to start!” Then he smiles. “We will have to work on that either way, so I didn’t lie to them.”

Stiles nods, serious. “Lying is bad.”

Equally serious, Dad nods back.

The forest is damp and cold, and Stiles is very glad he listened to Dad and put extra warm closes into his bag. Of course, Dad also put a lot of Stiles’ clothes into _his_ bag, but carrying his own stuff makes Stiles feel better and like he is a grown-up. Besides, he is helping.

They walk for about an hour going down a well travelled dirt road when he spots a fallen tree. It broke in the middle and formed a V-shaped arch.

“Look!” He points at it, jumping a little. “Is it The Spot?” It totally warrants the capitals.

Dad squints. “Yes, I believe it is.”

“I don’t see anyone near it.”

With a chuckle, Dad ruffles his hair. “It’s quite a distance away, son. Our guide will be there.”

He is right, of course. His Dad usually is. When they get closer, Stiles notices a man standing near it, leaning on the trunk. He looks just like Stiles imagined: huge and savage, with enormous axe in one hand and a bow and quiver slung over his back. Stiles grins at him, it feel manic as if it’s going to overcome his face and be forever stuck on it.

“Hello, are you waiting for us?”

The surly man looks startled to be addressed with such enthusiasm, but nods.

“Awesome! Are we going to fight wolves? Dad said there are wolves here, and that he fought them! Do you fight them often?”

Surly just blinks at him. Maybe he is slow or something. What if he doesn’t understand him? What if they speak a different language? He didn’t think to ask Dad and now it would be rude.

Dad puts a hand on his shoulder, calming him a little. “Hello,” he says to the man, “this is Stiles.”

Stiles waves in greeting. “What’s your name?”

Surly stares at him. Maybe he really doesn’t understand them? But then he finally says, “Olaf.” His voice is gruff, it suits his appearance rather well.

“Nice to meet you, Olaf.” Stiles dutifully replies, for once, mindful of his manners.

Olaf says, “Follow me,” and starts walking down the road.

Making a face at his back, Stiles decides that no, he will continue to call him Surly, no matter his actual name.

They walk for the rest of the day, making stops whenever Stiles is tired. Eventually, they come to a road that looks like a long bridge, which leads to the village that Dad told him about. It is decidedly strange: a wooden maze with many levels is hovering above the ground on long sticks. He has never seen anything more bizarre.

When they enter a large house with the eye on the door, he sees the shaman sitting on a strange chair in front of a fireplace. It has animal skulls on top of the backrest. The man inclines his head just slightly at Surly, who nods back and silently walks outside, and then turns to Stiles and catches his gaze.

“Hello, young man.”

Stiles swallows. “Hello, ser.”

“Alan, please,” the shaman says with a kind smile. “You must be tired.”

Though it’s not a question, he nods anyway.

“Tonight you will rest, and tomorrow we will start your education at first light. My apprentice will show you where you will be staying.”

It seems to be a signal to end the audience since a moment later a dark haired boy peeks inside the house. Stiles and Dad say goodbye, and soon they are outside again.

“Nice t’ meet you.” The boy looks at Dad with curiosity, but then zeroes in on Stiles.

Stiles waves at him.

“What’s your name?”

“Stiles.”

“Stiles? What kind of name is it?”

He frowns, ready to take offence. “Mine.” He thought it up himself and is kind of proud of it.

“Not very Fereldan,” the boy says with a dubious expression on his face. “I’m Scott.”

Stiles scoffs, “As if you have room to judge! Scott isn’t very Chasind, either.” It is a guess, but a very good one. Sometimes his intuition tells him things that turns out to be true. It was always like that, so he thinks nothing of it, not realising that it can be just one more manifestation of his magical talent.

“Fair point.” The boy shrugs and then smiles, showing a gap between his front teeth.

And yeah, all right, he seems nice enough.

“I’m so glad you’ll be studying with me! All other mages are old —” he says it like it’s an unforgivable crime “— and other kids spend all days hunting, fishing, or training. ’t will be great!” He doesn’t notice Stiles’ lack of enthusiasm or wait for response. “You will be staying with me and Ma, we’ve room since Da left.”

“Great.” He doesn’t mean it, but maybe it will be fine, after all. Even if he doesn’t really want to study how to use magic all that much, only how to control it.

“Want me to show you around?”

“Not tonight,” Dad says.

The boy nods, “Tomorrow, then.”

And Stiles is secretly relieved: he is too tired to even think about walking.

Scott leads them to a hut on the third tier — “You wouldn’t believe the view!” There a tired woman leads them to a small room. She asks to call her Melissa and offers dinner, though she and Scott have already ate.

Throughout the meal Scott chats non-stop, only pausing to take a breath before starting on another topic. By the end of it Stiles’ head is full with new names and village gossip, and he is rather impressed. Nobody have ever talked his ears off before. Scott’s eagerness is endearing; he looks like a puppy that’s let out to play for the first time. And listening to him recounting “that time I caught a frog and wanted to keep it,” Stiles decides that he is going to like him, even if Scott is three years older and a bit too oblivious.

He and Dad fall asleep on the benches covered with furs, full with food and impressions, and the last thought he has is, “I wish mom could be with us. She would have liked it here.”

He doesn’t know it yet, but in the morning Alan will start teaching him meditation. It will be the most valuable lesson in all the years he will spend under his tutelage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting with Chapter 4, edited by [Foodmoon](archiveofourown.org/users/Foodmoon). Let's all send many thanks and happy thoughts her way!


	5. Interlude

**9:21 Dragon, 17 Kingsway**

Morrigan hums, pulling bundles of dried herbs off hooks and carefully wrapping them in white linen cloths for keeping. Sunlight peeks through the window, a rare treat in the Wilds, especially during the autumn, and she smiles at the patterns it forms on the floor.

“I should go to the market soon, mother. The flour sack is almost empty, and I have a lot of pelts to sell…” she says, not looking up from her work.

Sitting on the threshold, Flemeth pauses the knife she uses to skin a rabbit. She turns and looks at Morrigan for a long moment. Her gaze gains weight. “You’ve already went there twice this month. Why do you suddenly enjoy going back and forth so much, hmm?”

“No reason, mother.” Morrigan ties the cloths with twine one after another, thirteen in total. The herbs rustle with her every move. “I just thought we could use more supplies for the winter, but if you don’t want me to go…”

Flemeth snorts. “Our supplies are fine. They will last us a while, especially when you stop hiding them.” Her eyebrows go up. “Or did you think I wouldn’t notice? I may be getting old, but I’m far from blind.”

Morrigan flinches.

Flemeth nods. “That’s what I thought.” She sighs. “It is too early still. Deep wounds take a long time to heal.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about, mother,” Morrigan says after a moment.

“Give him time, Morrigan,” she says, returning to the rabbit. The knife cuts deep into its flesh. 

A crow flies down onto the porch. It stands before Flemeth and caws, twice. 

She throws it a piece of liver and a heart, and the bird pecks at it. 

“Start the fire, girl, we might have guests tonight.”


	6. Summerday

_"You never get a second chance to make a first impression."  
_ _\- Harlan Hogan  
_ __  
**9:23 Dragon, 1** **Bloomingtide**    
  
It is a hot day, and Stiles is ready to do anything for a glass of something cold. “The sun is frying me into an extra crispy boy,” he mutters, wiping sweaty forehead with a damp cloth. It doesn’t help all that much — the water he soaked it in was lukewarm at best.

The market is flooded with out-of-towners: farmers from nearby farmsteads, freeholders, travelling merchants, distantrelatives… It looks like half of Ferelden chose to celebrate Summerday in Lothering this year. 

“Too many people on a too hot day,” he grumbles, shuffling past an old man who sits right on the ground to a stall with cool lemonade.

The queue is huge, and it will be a miracle if something is left by the time of his turn. He waits, watching the procession in white — boys in tunics and girls in gowns — shuffle toward the Chantry. It seems, even the joy of coming of age is dimmed by the relentless heat. He snorts, thinking that it must be at least slightly cooler inside, so if it was up to him, he’d be there himself. As It is, he is rather dubious the building, grand as it is, will accommodate all of them.

The wait drags on, and on, and on… Bored, he starts counting leaves on a nearby tree but gives up after the third time he flounders. He sighs, wrapping the mop around his knuckles. “Urgh!”

Someone behind him giggles. Farther down the queue, behind an old couple, Garrett whispers something to Bethany, and she giggles again. Stiles is surprised Carver isn’t with her — as far as Stiles knows, he is never far from his twin. Then again, it’s not as if he sees them often. The Hawkes keep to themselves.

The queue moves forward. It’s almost his turn — only a woman with two small kids in front of him — when he hears a girl saying, “I want a lemonade.” Her loud voice sounds vaguely Orlesian.

“This queue goes all the way to Denerim, it will take forever,” answers a boy in a pretentious tone, and Stiles instantly dislikes him.

“I don’t care. Make it happen,” demands the girl, appearing in his line of sight. The ends of the green ribbon braided into her strawberry blonde hair have come undone, and she pauses to tie them back into a neat bow.

She is so pretty that Stiles thinks about buying her a drink himself, even though he only has money for one glass. In another place and time, she could be his first crush. As it is, a long time ago he decided that he doesn’t have the luxury of falling in love willy-nilly. Magic reacts to strong emotions, so he can’t risk it. Too much is at stake. Besides, ‘Mind over feelings’ is a fine motto.

The boy — slightly older than both Stiles and the girl — looks at the sky, as if asking for patience, then sighs. “And how am I supposed to do that, Lydia?”

“Jackson,” she says, smiling, “you are so smart, I’m sure you will figure something out. I will be in the shade of that hulking tree.” She points at an old oak with twisted branches; its bark is stripped in some places, eaten by bugs in others. She makes a face at it. “Maker, even trees here are ugly!”

Preening at her praise, Jackson bypasses the whole queue, walking straight to the vendor. He barely waits for the woman to pay before ordering two drinks.

“Hey, jackass, wait for your turn!”

Shoulders stiffening, Jackson turns to Stiles. “Are you talking to me?” His voice is so cold, it’s a wonder no one is frosted over.

Stiles looks around. “Do you see any other jackasses?”

Jackson blushes; red floods his face and goes down, all the way to his neck in a mere second. “Do you know to whom you speak, peasant? My father will get you flogged if I so choose!”

Stiles snorts. “Oh, I see how it is now. You are a daddy’s little boy.”

Just as quickly, the colour drains from his face, leaving Jackson so pale, he starts looking like a ghost. He clenches his fists.

People in the queue start to mutter. The delay doesn’t please anyone. Someone says, “Oi, get on with it, will you?!” And someone else shouts for them to move out of the way.

“Go wait like everyone else. I didn’t stand here just for the scenery,” Stiles says.

Jackson opens his mouth to answers, but —

“What’s taking you so long?” comes Lydia’s voice. 

And he grits his teeth instead. Chin turned up, he says, “I’m not going anywhere without my lemonade.”

“Yeah? And I’m not going to let you buy it before me!”

The vendor says, “Look, if you’re not buying anything, step aside, please.” He glances at the queue, a tiny blue vein under his left eye is twitching. “These folks are thirsty.”

The chances of not actually getting any lemonade at all now grow exponentially. Still, it’s a matter of principle. Determined to not let the posh git get away with overprivileged behaviour, Stiles stands his ground. “Why don’t you go cry on your daddy’s lap, hmm?”

The jerk pales even further. His skin turns almost translucent, and Stiles wonders if soon he will be able to see right through it and have a look at the fine bones of his jaw. _It would be awesome,_ he decides.

Jackson shifts on his feet, as if the ground under them is unstable. No one ever dared to speak with him like this. This, this _simpleton_ in rags that are too cheap to wash his boots with dares to wag his filthy tongue and insult him, the Arl’s heir!.. Without really thinking about his actions, he grabs a glass from the counter and throws its content at the boy.

It’s a toss-up who looks more stunned: Stiles, drenched in cold sweetness, or Jackson, empty glass in hand.

Stiles thanks the Maker and Alan for his self-control. Magic flares to life inside him, buzzing just under his skin, and he is so very grateful that it doesn’t get out and incinerate the moron. No matter how he wants to let it go and do just that. Jackson may be a jerk, but he is not worth the troubles it will bring. Brushing drops off his eyelashes, Stiles throws the first punch. Never let it be said that he shies from a fight with a bigger opponent.

For a ten years old, Stiles is good, but Jackson is older, stronger, and definitely no sloth with physical training. Fists fly, and before long the boys are rolling on the ground, Jackson is pulling Stiles’ hair while he tries to kick his shin. Soon, however, they are picked up and pulled apart by strong arms. Spitting insults at each other, it takes them both more than a moment to calm down.

“Look what you’ve done!” says Jackson, pointing at his tunic. Blue Antivan silk is torn and bloody in places, streaks of dirt decorating it in a vivid pattern.

Stiles bares his teeth at him in a ferocious grin; the inside of his mouth is salty. “Come here, and I’ll finish redecorating your face!”

“That’s enough!” says the owner of the hands that keep him in place. “Think of what your father will say, young man.”

“That I should have given him a second shiner for the symmetry, Ser Maron?”

Ser Maron snorts and releases his hold. “I’m talking about the lecture you will hear before that.”

Stiles shrugs. “I’ll live. Thank you kindly, ser Templar —“ he bows to the dark-skinned man “— and please, don’t tell Dad you saw me today.”

On the other side of the street Jackson struggles out of Ser Doren’s grip, saying, “Let go of me, oaf!”

“Can’t do that, lad.” Ser Maron pauses. “Though, I won’t be able to tell him anything if I do not meet him, aye?” He winks at Stiles and ruffles his already disheveled hair. “Run along, then.”

Stiles nods and with a parting glare at the jerk shuffles toward the well. His place in the queue is long since gone, so it’s the next best place to quench thirst. Besides, now he needs to wash up as well.

Angry as all the rage demons in the Fade put together, Jackson attempts to follow him, but — 

“You need to pay to the merchant, my lord,” says the lout that grabbed him before. If not for him, Jackson would surely beat that half-wit to a pulp. With head held high, he walks to the stall to purchase the damned lemonade. After all he went through for it, he won’t move until he gets it.

Of course, as soon as it’s done and Jackson steps back with his prize, Lydia appears before him, her nose wrinkled in distaste at the state of his clothes. 

“Maker! Are you all right?” she asks, going for her handkerchief to wipe some of the blood off his face.

“I’m fine.” It’s a lie, but his ego won’t allow for any other answer. “I had everything under control.”

Lydia smiles. It’s only in the twist of her lips, though, and doesn’t reach her eyes. “I never doubted that, not even for a second.”

Face as clear as it could be, Stiles gulps a handful of water, surreptitiously watching the jerk across the street. The pretty girl is fussing over him, and he feels a brief pang of envy but ruthlessly stomps it before it can take root. The sun is still bearing down on him in full force. He sighs. Time for a little rest under the nearest tree.

* * *

“Hi.” Bethany’s timid voice plucks him out of a meditative state he inadvertently has fallen into. She looks like she might run away if not for Gareth standing behind her back. “That’s for you,” she says, presenting him with a glass of lemonade.

Stiles blinks. “Thanks,” he says, taking it from her. It comes out as a question.

Cocking her head to the side, she says, “Are you asking me should you thank me or actually thanking me?”

Stiles takes a sip and moans in pleasure. “Thanking you, definitely. You are my hero! Want me to write a song in your honour? I will ask the bard in Dane’s Refuge to sing it every time you come around, and soon all Ferelden will hear of your generous and virtuous soul. It will be great!”

Bethany giggles, and he smiles back. “I’m Stiles.”

“We know,” says Gareth, stepping around his sister and landing next to Stiles. “It’s not like there are any people we don’t know around here. Lothering is so small.” He sighs. “Sometimes I feel like there’s only a dozen or so villagers in any place we live, and even they start to look the same after a while. Your family kinda stands out, though. No idea, why.” 

Bethany gasps. “Gareth! That’s not a nice thing to say!”

“Well, it’s true.” He throws his hands up in a placating gesture. “I’m an honest person. Honesty is my second name and first nature.”

Rolling her eyes, Bethany forgets to be shy and sits next to them. “Of course, brother. Tell it to mother next time she asks about the cookies that have mysteriously disappeared. Again.”

“It’s not my fault she persist with leaving them on the windowsill, is it? It’s like asking a wolf to guard sheep and then being surprised one went missing.”

“You know,” Stiles says, “I’d be really surprised if only one sheep went missing.”

“See!” Gareth raises a finger, as if Stiles has totally validated his point.

“He didn’t actually agree with you.”

“Oh, shut it,” he says, laugher in his voice, “I’m your elder, so I’m right by default!”

Bethany makes a face. “Now you sound just like Carver.”

“Oh, no! The horror!” One hand over his heart, the other clutches his forehead, Gareth swoons like an Orlesian maiden in every performance of any travelling theatre. “Lightning strike me dead at this very spot if I ever do it again!” he says from the ground. 

Stiles turns to Bethany. “Is he always like this?”

“Pretty much.”

“Your family dinners must be fun.”

“You have no idea,” she says with feeling.

“Hey!”

“What? That’s true, too.”

“Where’s Carver? I’ve never seen you without him before.” Not that Stiles sees them all that often — Hawkes live on a farmstead a little way from Lothering. He is surprised they came to talk with him at all.

“He is too cool to hang out with us,” says Gareth, still lying on the ground.

Bethany punches him in the stomach. 

“Ouch! That hurt.”

She just sticks her tongue at him, to Stiles she says, “He has his own friends now.” She sounds indifferent, but he feels a deep hurt that she is trying to hide.

Pulling out a handful of grass, Gareth examines it, then throws it away. “Screw Carver, we don’t need him, anyway.”

“Mother would be appalled at such language!”

“Good thing she isn’t here to hear it, then, eh?” He nudges Bethany. “So we decided to branch out, reach to people, and all that.” He props himself up on his elbows. “And we choose you, our new friend!” he says, looking at Stiles.

“It must have been a hard choice,” Stiles says, nodding, “but you did well. Ply me with lemonade some more, please, and I even will be flattered.”

Bethany throws a wrapped candy at him. 

It hits his head and bounces off, but Stiles catches it before it can fall on the ground. “That works, too.” Unwrapping the candy, he breaks it in into three equal pieces and gives it to his new friends.

Bethany smiles at him, the corners of her eyes crinkle, and, blushing, Stiles forgets what he was going to say next.

“Punching Jackson Bryland was a ballsy move. I like that,” says Gareth.

“That was Arl’s son?” Stiles’ eyes widens in shock. From what he’d heard from Dad, Leonas Bryland is a good man: he even fought in the Rebellion, despite being half-Orlesian. So Stiles’ never imagined his child would be such a jerk.

Gareth raises his eyebrows. “You didn’t know?” Taking a look at Stiles, he bursts out laughing. “Oh, your face!..”

Stiles grimaces. “I fear for the fate of South Reach if that jerk is the next Arl.”

Gareth hums, then glances at the new group in white going toward the Chantry. “I’m glad I’ve got at least three, or maybe even four years before it’s my turn. Who wants a long, boring lecture on how to be a responsible adult? I sure don’t.”

“As if you can ever be responsible,” scoffs Bethany.

“That would be boring. Besides, I am responsible when it matters.” He redirects his gaze at her. 

To Stiles it looks like they are communicating with their eyes only. _Fascinating._ “So who’s up for a dip in the river?” he asks to break the silence.

“Excellent idea!” Gareth sits up. “See, I knew I liked you for a reason.”

In a low voice, Bethany says, “Actually, _I_ chose you.”

Stiles blushes again. A grin spreads over his face, and he hides it behind the glass, all thoughts of pretty blondes forgotten.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ages: Stiles — 10; Jackson — 12; Lydia — 11; Gareth — 14; Bethany and Carver — 12.
> 
> Many thanks to [Foodmoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foodmoon). =)


	7. The Hawkes

_“We will be friends until forever, just you wait and see.”_  
_\- A.A. Milne,_ _Winnie-the-Pooh_  
**  
** **9:25 Dragon, 14** **August  
  
** Stiles bursts into the house, knocking over a broom that stands beside the door, and barrels into the kitchen at full speed. 

“I did it! Dad, I did it, and it was awesome! The flight!.. _The wings!.._ It’s just… _Awesome!_ ”

Elric stops chopping the leek and puts the knife on the board. “That’s good to hear,” he says with a smile. “It will be even better when you tell me what exactly it is that you did.”

“I turned into a raven!” Stiles does a little dance around the table and overturns a chair. Transformation is the only branch of magic he is excited about learning. And maybe healing, too, just a little bit. “A raven! Can you believe it? It’s so cool!”

“Congratulations! Come here and give me a hug. I’m so proud of you.” Elric hasn’t seen Stiles so happy in quite a while and never when it is about something related to his gift. It is a good sign, but he can’t not ask, “Nobody saw you?”

“Da-ad,” Stiles says, walking into Elric’s waiting arms without hesitation. “I was sitting in the barn behind a hay stack.”

“You can’t be too careful.” He sighs. “I thought you wanted to turn into a rabbit first?”

“It was before Bunny died. Now rabbits make Beth sad,” he says, taking a step backward and resuming his dance while Elric goes back to chopping vegetables.

“Ah. Well, we should celebrate it. What do you want to do?” 

“Can we go for a boat ride on Lake Calenhad? I want to try fishing in the middle of it.” Stiles’ face loses some of its cheer. “Gareth says a monster lives there. It eats anyone who attempts to swim to the shore, and that’s why nobody escapes the Circle that way.”

“It can’t be true. Mages do escape the Circle somehow,” Eric says in a calm voice, his face thoughtful. “I don’t think all of them can steal a boat, and besides, people wouldn’t be allowed to swim or fish on the Lake, would they?” He pauses, left eyebrow raised. “Still, I’d prefer not to risk being eaten. _I_ can’t turn into a bird and fly away.”

“Yeah… I didn’t think about that.” Stiles’ enthusiasm wilts a little, then he brightens again. “Then can you buy me a new book next time a merchant comes by?”

“That can be arranged. In the meantime, how about we go fishing on the river, what do you say?”

“I’d like that. Can Beth come with us? Gareth and Carver are busy practising.”

“You shouldn’t slack off swordplay, too, you know.” Elric points the knife at him. “I expect that now, when you completed your assignment, you will train more often, young man.”

Stiles pivots on his heels. “Yes, ser, right away, ser!”

Elric laughs and throws him an apple.

“Well? What are you waiting for, go tell your girlfriend that we are going fishing in an hour.”

Stiles nearly bites his fingers instead of the fruit. “Dad! She is my friend who happens to be a girl.” He pulls a face that is supposed to convey how disturbing he find the mere idea of dating Bethany. Instead, it just tells Elric that the apple is sour. “Nothing more.”

“Um-hum. And that’s exactly why your ears are burning.”

“Ugh!” Throwing his hands up, Stiles almost sends the apple flying. Barely catching it, he takes another bite and grimaces again. “I’m going now.”

“Say hi for me to Malcolm and Leandra.”

“Will do! Don’t chop off your fingers, old man!” Stiles shouts from the doorway.

“You forgot your apple!” Chuckling, Elric picks it up from the table and bites into it… His face contorts into the exact same grimace his son’s did.

* * *

Several hours later Stiles watches the float as it wallows in the water. Gentle waves hit the boat; the current isn’t strong. He is relaxed in a way that can happen only on a nice day when you are basking in the afternoon sun, stomach full, and enjoying a meditative activity. His eyelids grow heavy with each passing minute, though. Dad is too focused on his own float to notice, but Beth does. She elbows him in the ribs.

“Oi!”

“Shh! You will scare the fish away,” she whispers, frowning, but the hint of a smile shows in the corners of her lips.

Stiles shrugs, then covers a yawn with left palm. The fishing rod slides out of his other hand, and he tightens his grip. “We already have enough.”

“A-ha!” Elric’s float goes down, and he spends the next two minutes pulling a rather large trout of the water. 

The fish doesn’t want to become someone’s dinner and puts up a fight: it thrashes around, and when Elric tries to throw it into the bucket full with its brethren, the fish slips out of his hand and in a rather impressive move flops onto Bethany’s lap. Startled, she screams.

It happens so fast that Stiles only has time to blink. Eyes closed, he hears a heavy thud; eyes open — the fish is no longer moving. It lies on the floor, encased in a solid block of ice. They all stare at it, Beth with a horrified expression on her face.

“Well,” Elric says after a moment, “guess we won’t have any more bite today, now. Who wants to swim?” And, calm as a pond water, he starts to pack the equipment. 

“Ser…” Bethany starts, a tear rolling down her cheek. “Please…”

“Oh, none of that!” He pauses and catches her gaze. “All is fine, dear. You understand?”

“But…” She seems unable to finish a sentence, arms wound tightly around her knees. 

She is so terrified, Stiles expects her to start shaking at any moment now. In a split second he makes a decision. He thought it would be harder to overcome his reluctance to use magic with people around, but Beth is too important and… She is _a mage_. He would do worse things to clear that horrible look off her face.

“Beth,” Stiles says quietly, showing her his hand, “it’s all right. Trust me, nobody is going to report you.” A small flame dances on his open palm.

* * *

Later, after Dad went home to start on the dinner and to give them time to talk, they lie on the shore, looking at the sky. A lone cloud crawls along the horizon, and the sun has a reddish halo.

“I should have guessed you are a mage. It’s rather obvious, really,” Stiles says.

Bethany pales. “What makes you say so?”

“Please,” he scoffs. “As if you need a walking stick. You are _fourteen_ , not _forty_.”

“It’s kinda funny: I had it for years and nobody have ever commented on that. Though, I don’t always bring it with me, you know.” She doesn’t. The staff is in her hand mostly when they go exploring, somewhere where they can run into trouble. Colour returns to her face; she looks contemplative. “Why do you _don’t_ have a staff?”

‘Because I don’t need it’ is a quick answer. ‘Because I don’t want it’ — an honest one. ‘Because I don’t like magic all that much and avoid using it at all cost’ — the complicated truth. “I already have a sword,” Stiles says instead.

He can see that she isn’t satisfied with the answer but doesn’t persist. That’s what he likes about her: she knows when to leave things alone. They lapse into silence for a while.

“Do you ever think that it would be better to just stop hiding and go to the Circle?” Bethany asks, her voice barely rises above the sound of the stream.

“Yes,” Stiles says at length, “But who will look after my father?” He pauses. “Besides, it feels wrong, you know. Like giving up.” He sighs. “And I really don’t like to give up.”

“But wouldn’t your father be safer without you?”

Stiles feels like an ice cold needle pierces his heart.

“I fear that my presence puts my whole family into a greater danger of discovery,” she continues, not noticing his distress. “Before coming here, we moved a lot. My magic manifested really early, when I was only four. And I was too small to understand why I can’t use it outside the house, or why I need to be careful with what I say around other people. Sometimes, I slipped up. For a long time we only stayed in one place for a couple of months at most.”

Stiles stays silent, looking at the sky. When he finally replies, his voice is flat. “Dad says it’s not only my choice to make. He doesn’t have anyone else, and if I’m taken to the Circle, I think for him it would be like if I die, you know?”

Bethany turns to the side to look at his profile. “I think I understand, but my parents have Carver and Gareth, it won’t be so hard for them.”

He mirrors her position, so they are face to face. “It will be for me.”

“Sometimes I think that the Maker is punishing us,” she says it like she is telling a secret, voice quiet and intimate, but her expression is distant and a bit dreamy. “I wish I was different, normal.”

“You _are_ normal.”

“You know what I mean. Sometimes I hate it, hate that I’m a mage.”

“Don’t say that, it’s stupid. It’s like hating a part of yourself, an arm or a leg.”

“Don’t you ever feel this way?” she asks, looking him straight in the eyes.

“No,” he says. “I don’t hate magic.” Sometimes I hate myself, he doesn’t say.

“Before Lothering,” she says, then stops, swallows hard. “I didn’t have any friends, not really. As soon as I started making a connection, something would happen and we’d be on the run again. Carver blames me for that even if he doesn’t say anything.” Then she adds in an almost inaudible whisper, “Sometimes, I think he resents me because I’m a mage.” She blinks back tears that are threatening to fall, not willing to cry again. 

“You are my first friend, Stiles. I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t, I swear,” he says, taking her hand in his. 

They lie on the shore, talking, until the sun starts to sat, their fingers entwined.

* * *

Next day starts with a message inviting Elric and Stiles for dinner. It is a written invitation, and Elric turns the paper in his hands with some perplexity. He has never been to the Hawkes or spoken with them longer than a polite hello-how-are-you would require, but Malcolm always seemed like an easygoing man, not very hard on formalities. 

“That’s just mother’s quirks. She came from a high society in Kirkwall.” Gareth shrugs, then leans on the front door; it snaps closed under his weight. “She insists on giving us _etiquette lessons_.” His tone and face says that he would rather she doesn’t.

“Do I need to write her a response?” Elric asks, resisting the urge to scratch at the back of his head.

“I don’t think she’ll be offended if you just tell me the answer.”

Elric nods, relieved. “In this case, we accept the invitation.”

“Hey, you didn’t ask what I think! Maybe I don’t want to go, or I already have other plans,” Stiles says, appearing behind him, eyes half open. 

“You don’t want to see our home, the place where you’ve been a thousand times already?” Gareth raises his eyebrows and crosses arms over his chest. “How could you not?”

“That’s not the point,” Stiles says, pouting.

Foreseeing the impending debate, Elric sighs. “I have to go. Stiles, don’t forget to eat breakfast.” Then he looks at Gareth until the young man steps away from the doorway, saying,

“Oh, right, sorry.”

Elric smiles, shaking his head. “See you, boys, later.”

“Bye, Dad,” Stiles says, still pouting, and goes to plop on the sofa.

“Someone is not a morning person,” Gareth says, joining him with more grace. “I like your hairstyle, by the way. Very stylish.”

“Oi, it’s not my fault that your hair always look amazing. It’s mighty unfair,” Stiles says, attempting to finger comb a crow’s nest that appeared on his head overnight to no avail.

“What can I say, I’m just naturally perfect.” Gareth smiles, showing perfectly white straight teeth.

Stiles is kind of surprised the sun doesn’t reflect off them. It should have found a way to shine through the roof. “It’s a miracle you and your ego both fit into our small living room.”

Gareth laughs, then he schools his features into a serious expression, clears his throat, and straightens. “So. Magic.”

Looking at how perfectly composed he can become at the drop of a hat makes Stiles want to ask Gareth’s mom for lessons too. He briefly entertains the thought, then he snorts, “Great way to bring up a sensitive subject.”

“Well, I’ve never claimed to be subtle. I think between the three of us, it all went to Bethany. Carver can be thick as several brick walls put together and stubborn as a pack of donkeys.” The smile that twist his lips isn’t his usual happy-go-lucky kind; it’s bitter and maybe a little sad. 

In this moment Gareth reminds Stiles of Bethany so much that he sees more similarities between them than Bethany has with her twin.

“Beth is so happy that you turned out to be a mage,” he continues. “It’s been hard for her to have no one to relate to. I imagine it’s the same for you.”

“Not exactly.” Stiles lifts left leg on the couch and shifts, so he is sitting on it. His right leg starts to bounce on the floor. Magic is so far from his favourite topic, it might very well be on another plane of existence, but after opening up to Bethany the previous day, he finds it easier to talk about. “I have a shaman-in-training friend.”

Gareth leans forward. “How come?”

“Um… I’m something of an apprentice to a Chasind Shaman.”

“So _that’s_ where you actually go! And I was a little envious of your ‘hunting trips’! Though, now I’m more than a little envious that you know a Shaman!”

Stiles shrugs. “We do actually hunt things. Where would we get all that pelts we sell otherwise?”

“Damn! You are a mage _and_ you know how to hunt. Now I do officially envy you.” Gareth elbows Stiles in the ribs to show that he isn’t serious. “If not for my good looks and winning personality, I’d consider breaking our friendship. But, lucky you, my name isn’t Carver. So don’t you worry, we’re good.”

“Thanks, mate, that’s very generous of you.”

Gareth smiles. “You know, I think our father was disappointed that only Beth took after him.”

That can’t be true — nobody can wish for their child to be ostracised — but Stiles appreciates the sentence. 

“She told you he’s an apostate, right?”

Stiles nods. He’s quite impressed by the story of Malcolm Hawke’s escape from the Circle. It couldn’t have been easy, even with the help of a templar. And he had enough courage to start a family! Or maybe it was the other way around — the news of Leandra’s pregnancy gave him the courage to finally act. Stiles can’t decide if he admires or judges him for it, either way.

“So I think he’ll offer to teach you. He is great at that; when he was in the Circle, he taught young magelings—”

“That’s not a word!”

“—primary forces. Sure it is, I just used it. Anyway, I’d better go now. Mother will be very unhappy if I don’t find a perfect cabbage for her infamous pie. Don’t tell her I said that.” With a wink, he stands up.

As a good host, Stiles goes to show him out, and Gareth ruffles his already disarrayed hair before shooting out the door, laughing. Grumbling, Stiles tries to remember what he should do… His stomach growls. 

“Oh, right, breakfast!”

* * *

The Hawkes’s house is on the smaller side, but it accommodates the family of five well enough. The twins share a room while Gareth has his own, and though it is smaller than theirs, Carver still sees it as one more sign of favouritism for his older brother. Stiles knows it because Carver brings it up at every opportunity. It happens so often that the desire to stuff his mouth with something nasty — a dirty sock will do — is almost irresistible.  

The only thing that stops Stiles is the knowledge that Bethany will be upset. Last time they had a disagreement, Stiles accidentally broke Carver’s finger, and Beth didn’t speak with him for a week. So now he just ignores him, even if Carver is a whiny prick. How they are twins, he doesn’t know. Aside from the familial resemblance, they are nothing alike.

“I don’t believe we have been formally introduced,” Malcolm says to his father when Bethany, who met them at the door, leads them inside. He rarely goes into Lothering, which is understandable, giving his status, so it is no wonder they didn’t have an occasion to chat before tonight. “Malcolm Hawke, apostate extraordinaire,” he continues with a wry smile, “and this is my wife Leandra.”

“Welcome to our home,” she says.

“Elric Stilinski.” Dad bows his head. “Well met.”

Looking at the family gathered together, it’s easy to see what the children took after parents: the twins inherited Leandra’s black hair and chocolate-brown eyes while Gareth has blue eyes and the tone of his hair is lighter, dark brown like Malcolm’s. They all are fair skinned, though only Leandra somehow avoided getting any tan at all. She is a beautiful woman, with regal posture and a bearing that speaks of a different life louder than her educated words. Near her even Carver straightens his usual slouch. Stiles definitely needs to ask her for lessons.

They proceed to the table where Stiles gets to sit between Dad and Bethany. Leandra, Gareth, and Carver take the opposite side, and Malcolm is at the head. A small linen cloth lies beside each plate, a goblet to its right. At the centre is a simple vase with wildflowers.

Stiles reaches for bread rolls, but Beth steps on his foot, and he withdraws his hand before anyone has a chance to notice. Apparently, Malcolm and Leandra take turns to say a prayer before meals. She offers the honour to Dad, but he refuses. It all feels oddly formal, completely different to what he is used to.

Leandra starts a conversation centring mostly on the news from high society and gossip. She keeps her tone light and voice at a polite level — not too loud or too quiet; her gesticulation is precise and graceful, hands flit over the table when she gestures to make a point or passes a dish. It looks like an art form. Beth is a lot like her in that regard, but less refined, she has a way to go still ahead of her.

“Did you hear about King Cailan’s impending marriage to Lady Anora?” Leandra says over the second course, some kind of chunky stew. Cooking is definitely not her strongest point.

Dad nods and hums noncommittally. Stiles suspects that Mrs. Hawke can effortlessly carry a conversation all by herself if need be.

“I am, of course, happy for them; such a beautiful couple,” she continues. “But so soon after King Maric’s disappearance… It doesn’t seem prudent, don’t you agree?”

“Really, my dear,” Malcolm says, catching her hand in his and patting it with the other. “It is long in coming. They’ve been betrothed for what feels like forever.”

“King Maric’s disappearance is too fresh in minds. People need a reason to celebrate,” Dad says.

Malcolm nods. “That, and what man doesn’t need a woman by his side, hmm?” He kisses Leandra’s fingers and lets go of her hand while she smiles at him.

Stiles sees Carver making a face, but it’s half-hearted at best; Beth and Gareth doesn’t react at all. So it must be their usual behaviour. It strikes him then that they are still deeply in love, after more than sixteen years of marriage. They look at each other the same way newlyweds do. He imagines that were his mother alive, she and Dad would be in love, too. Suddenly, he misses her so much, it hits him like a blow to the gut and he has difficulties swallowing a piece of pie he just started on. Appetite lost, he puts the rest of the slice on his plate. 

The conversation moves on to the dangers of sea travel and how awful it is that King Maric is declared dead, but Teyrn Loghain is still searching for him, that good man.

“Ah, I see you have braved the cabbage pie,” Gareth says quietly, taking advantage of their parents’ distraction. “Mother won’t tell us what’s in it, but I’m sure some unholy demon taught her its recipe. Or maybe it was grandmother. Not that there’s any difference, as far as I can tell.”

Frowning, Bethany leans forward to look at him over Stiles. “You haven’t even met her.”

Gareth shrugs. “I don’t need or want to. She did nothing to help mother when she left home to live with father, pregnant and with nothing but clothes on her back. Grandma must be an evil bitch to allow that. I’m sure she could have spared a sovereign or two, even if she’d have to go against grandpa’s wishes.”

“Language,” Leandra says, which must be an automatic response to any kind of profanity, seeing as she didn’t object to anything else he said, absorbed in the discussion. 

“Sorry, mother.”  The way he says it makes it obvious that it’s an automatic response, too.

This must happen _very_ often, Stiles thinks with amusement. Thoroughly distracted, he takes another bite… Now, when food no longer tastes like ashes on his tongue, he can appreciate the magnitude of awfulness of the pie. Of course, being a polite boy, he forces it down without too much of a grimace. Thankfully, nobody notices.

His attention shifts back to the grown-ups. Despite coming here a lot, he rarely spoke with Malcolm or Leandra. Now he watches as they speak with Dad and sees the similarities between them and their children. Malcolm is charismatic and charming, attentive listener with serious eyes that don’t miss anything. It’s almost uncanny how Gareth’s personality resembles their father’s.

Bethany is nothing like either of them. She is quiet and thoughtful, shy with strangers while Leandra is like an open book, though if she was a book, it would be an Orlesian romance novel. He doesn’t know Carver well enough to pass judgement, but at first glance he is more of a ball of angry resentment than a human being. He must have some good in him, otherwise Beth wouldn’t defend him so much.

Malcolm says something that must be a joke, and everyone at the table laugh, disrupting his reflection. All too soon the dinner is over.

“Help me clear the table, boys,” Leandra says to her sons.

Surprisingly, they comply without a word. Well, Gareth mutters, “Slave driver,” but if he didn’t say anything, Stiles would suspect a demon possession. They stack plates and dishes and fill out of the room.

“I hear you are a mage, young man,” Malcolm says to Stiles with a slight frown.

“Guilty as charged.”

“Stiles,” Dad says, long-suffering look on his face, and Stiles shrugs, as if to say, ‘What can I do? It’s true.’ 

Dad makes scary eyes at him, which translates into ‘behave!’ and Bethany giggles.

Malcolm sighs. “It is a serious matter, dear.”

She nods, schooling her features into an appropriate expression the way Gareth did in the morning. _Etiquette lessons, definitely a must._

“I believe you have already guessed what I’m going to ask next, but just the same: would you like to study with Bethany?”

To have a teacher so close to home and who has a traditional Circle training? (And to spend more time with Beth… But why is it so important, he is unsure.) It’s not even a question. “Yes, very much so.”

His jovial disposition returns, Malcolm clasps his hands. “Excellent! She will tell you when to come.”

As if on cue, Leandra returns, Gareth trailing after her carrying a tray with glasses and an old, dusty bottle. “Why don’t you go play with Carver? He went outside to watch the sunset,” she says.

Gareth rolls his eyes behind her back and puts his burden on the table. 

“Come on, then. Let’s leave adults so they can have a drink in peace,” he says, herding Stiles and Bethany toward the door.

As promised, Carver sits on the porch, looking at the sky. The sun is just above the horizon, colouring the clouds with deep orange and red hues. Hearing their approach, he glances over his shoulder. A curious look crosses his face.

“So you are a mage,” he says to Stiles when they all sit down next to him — Gareth on one side, Bethany and Stiles on the other.

“It would seem so.”

“Why do you train with swords and bows, then? Shouldn’t you practice magic instead?” At least, he doesn’t raise the question of the Circle.

“I need to know how to defend myself,” Stiles says, staring at the bush some distance away. It’s very green and shaped vaguely like a dog.

“Yes, but shouldn’t you study how to set things on fire? I thought all mages prefer to use their natural talents.” For once, he doesn’t sound confrontational, and Stiles appreciates the effort, if nothing else.

He turns to Carver and says, jaw set, “I don’t.”

“But why?” Carver persists, brows furrowed.

Sensing the rising tension, Gareth says, “Maybe he wants to keep a low profile, being an apostate an’ all. It won’t do to be seen casting spells left and right just to catch a meat for supper. It’s also a good fall back in case the Templars drain his mana… Maybe we should start you on swordplay, too, Beth.”

After looking at her brothers and then at Stiles, she gives Gareth a slow nod. “Good idea, brother. Why didn’t we thought of it sooner? I’m so far behind you, I’ll never catch up.”

“Hmm… You are better suited for my sword tactics, so _that_ I have covered. But out of the three of us, Stiles has the best aim with a bow. Maybe he can show you his tricks.” 

Carver snorts, probably imagining his sister with daggers, but Beth turns to Stiles and says, “I would like that. What do you say?”

He smiles, shoulders relaxing. “Just don’t teach them my trade secrets, and we will be good.” 

They lapse into a comfortable silence. In the sky the sun rolls over the horizon.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And many thanks go to Foodmoon. =)


	8. Brecilian Forest

**Chapter 7 - Brecilian Forest**

_"Bad things come in threes."  
_ _\- Proverb_

**9:27 Dragon, 3 Kingsway**

It was his idea, and Stiles will own the blame, but _please, Maker, let him be all right!_

It started, like a lot of things seem to do, with a stupid dare. Well, no. Technically, it started with him finally persuading Scott to come visit Lothering. And what an ordeal it was! Honestly, it's not natural to be so responsible, not at seventeen. Shouldn't he jump at the slimmest chance of an adventure, to get away from his many duties before the impending coming of age ceremony officially pronounces him an adult? Stiles thought any sane person would say a resounding, "Yes!" but apparently, Scott either isn't sane or he is an anomaly.

He remembers saying, "You can't be for real! The village won't collapse in on itself and bury everyone in the swamp underneath it in your absence! Alan will look after the tribe. He's been doing it all by himself long before you started taking on his duties. You know, for many years even."

Scott shook his head, looking at his staff like a mother bear at her sole surviving cub. "I'm going to miss it."

"What, the village's collapse?" Stiles rolled his eyes, hard. "No, you won't, because it _won't happen._ "

Scott raised his gaze at him, looking adorably confused. Like a lost puppy. Well, maybe not Dog. _He_ never looked this way, even in the short period when he was actually smaller than a pony. Leandra must have cooked non-stop since Dog had imprinted on Gareth last year for the mabari to grow so large so quickly.

"No, my staff," Scott said. "I'm going to get a new one, and this I will give to my apprentice when I'm old enough to have him. It's a tradition."

"You still have three months to make sweet, sweet love to it. At least you won't have to listen to a reverent mother preaching to abide the Maker and be a mindless goon, making the Chantry proud. That's what Gareth told me I'm going to be subjected to on the Summerday when I'm eighteen." He sighed. "Live a little! Explore the world while you still can!"

"But…"

"Oh, come on! I know for a fact that you are allowed to go there. I see your people all the time. It's like the market is a Chasind hot spot nowadays." He might have exaggerated a little, but he'd seen several familiar faces haggling over grains at least twice this year. "Damn, even Surly comes by my house!"

Actually, that happened only once. Stiles was so surprised to see him on their doorstep, he swallowed the bread he was eating the wrong way. He still insists it was an assassination attempt on Olaf's part. Scott looked unconvinced, so Stiles sighed again and got to work — he wasn't above begging.

In the end, Stiles won and that's what history should remember. (He might have asked Melissa for help, but that's an irrelevant detail.)

They departed for Lothering in the morning — bright, early, and damp, always damp — and stumbled across a group of bandits almost right out of the gate, so to speak. It was more like 'out of the settlement's view and three hours through the Wilds.' Anyway, why these thugs were so close to Ostagar and the Guards' outpost near it was anyone's guess.

"How do you know they are bandits and not, say, hunters?" Scott asked, as usual assuming the best of people, Maker bless his soul.

Stiles raised an eyebrow, spying on the group from behind a large tree: they were making camp. He counted eight men so far. "Since when do hunters use clubs and mallets?"

Unperturbed, Scott said, "Travellers?"

"In these parts? Hardly. Besides, they don't strike me as a nature loving types." He snorted, imagining those large goons picking elfroots and deathroots, trying to distinguish one from the other, failing, and putting them into woven baskets all together. Shaking his head, he said, "Let's move on before they notice us."

They performed a careful retreat, going backwards and, in Stiles's case, crablike — just for the fun of it. Maybe luck was on their side, or maybe the Maker smiled on them, but they slipped unnoticed by the bandits and soon reached Ostagar.

On Stiles's twelve birthday Dad had finally allowed him to go to the tribe by himself (and he is mighty proud of that), provided that he travels with a passing Guards patrol and someone of the tribe meets him near their outpost (this he prefers to overlook). Not that he needs the escort or anything, but the company — usually — is nice. He knows all the contingent and even thinks of the young recruits, twins Patrick and Stewart, as tentative friends. And it's especially nice when it's Scott who gets to play guide through the forest. They've spent a lot of time frolicking through the Wilds, exploring ancient ruins and pretending to be great warriors of old. Sadly, it seems to come to an end, what with Scott's newfound ultra-serious attitude and all.

He took Apple from the stables, thanking Ser Irvin for looking after him, and introduced them — both the human and the horse — to Scott. It figures they'd hit it off instantly. Scott does have a thing with animals _and_ he loves to talk about them. It's almost preternatural how all four legged creatures calm down around him. If he didn't know Scott's a mage, Stiles would say he is a ranger the first time he saw Scott turning an angry bear into a cuddly pet in a matter of minutes. Scott may deny it all he wants, but Stiles will always suspect an elven blood somewhere in his family tree.

"Aren't you waiting for the rounds, kid?" asked Ser Irving, scratching his well groomed beard. "Rookies are scheduled to return tomorrow."

"You do such a good work keeping the roads safe!" Stiles said with a wide-eyed expression. A little flattery never hurt anyone.

"That we do." Ser Irvin preened. The old man had been stationed here for almost twenty years. He was among the first Guards, right out of the king's army, and the first to serve at this outpost. A lot of war stories Stiles had heard about the Rebellion came from him.

"And anyway," Stiles said, "Scott is going to accompany me all the way home. He will keep me safe in the unlikely event that I need it. Speaking of which, we saw a group of bandits about three hours walk north-west of here, near the half-sunken temple."

"There's a broken tree that forms an arch over the road nearby," Scott added.

"They didn't look all that competent, quite the opposite, but all the same…" Stiles shrugged.

Ser Irvin nodded, frowning. "Thanks for bringing it to my attention. We will look into it," he said, rising to his feet, a troubled look on his face. "Stay safe."

Saying goodbyes, Stiles and Scott filed out before Ser Irvin had time to remember his objections. Once outside, they hit the road again, this time on horseback.

They made good time on the road and came to Lothering in the next afternoon. Stiles stopped Apple near the stairs of the Highway, providing Scott with an opportunity to appreciate the view. From that point the village looked small and inviting, and a wave of homesickness hit him square in the chest.

"Here it is," he said. "Pretty as a painting."

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that Scott was curious. _That's right_ , he thought, _Scott has never been outside of the Wilds._

The next two days were the most fun he had in, like, ever.

Stiles was so excited about introducing Scott to the Hawkes that he rode Apple to their house instead of the stables. Good thing, too, because Gareth was going hunting with Malcolm and wouldn't be back for at least three days, but one look at Stiles's puppy eyes and Scott's… well, _Scott-ness_ , and they postponed the trip till morning. That face can convince a reverent mother to go out for drinks with a Tevinter magister, for sure. It's cute how Scott doesn't understand his effect on people.

"You know, if you weren't such a nice, genuinely good person, I'd fear for Ferelden. The Chasind haven't waged wars with us for, like, ages," Stiles said later, eyeing him with speculation, "but if you decide to honour your ancestors and go for world domination, I'm your second in command, right?"

Perplexed, Scott said, "Sure." Then he paused in thought. "I will spare all your friends, too. Maybe give them a position in my army. I'll try to keep bloodshed to a minimum."

Stiles snorted a laugh. "Thanks for that, mate. I feel so reassured now."

After helping them unpack, Gareth and Bethany offered to show Scott around the village. Stiles was beside himself. All his friends in one place, hitting it off swimmingly? It was like First Day came earlier. Then, of course, they met Carver, and, well… Apparently, the jerk was having a bad day. Suffice to say, it didn't go well.

One word after another, and somehow Stiles found himself betting that he and Scott would go for a hunt in the Brecilian Forest. No idea, how it came to be. At least Scott had his back, taking his side without a question, even though later, in private, he expressed concern, saying that maybe it wasn't such a good idea after all.

"We will be fine," Stiles said with a hand wave. "You live in the Wilds! The Forest should be less dangerous, not more, because it doesn't have 'Wilds' in the name."

Scott still wasn't sold on the idea, however, but then a demon must have whispered into his ear because the next words out of his mouth were, "Right. What's the worst that can happen?"

Stiles cursed internally. Saying such things is like issuing an engraved invitation for troubles to come their way, everyone knows that. But backing out wasn't an option, so he just shrugged and said, "Two formidable folks like us? We will be all right, I'm sure." Even though he suddenly didn't feel sure at all.

To be honest, he really didn't think it through, since no way in the Void was Dad going to let them go traipse around Ferelden on they own, especially not anywhere near the Dalish elves, notorious for their distrust, contempt, and even hatred of humans. And the Forest lies a good distance away — no less than a week of walking. Walking…

"We can shift into animals!" he said, hit with an idea.

Scott nodded. "The flight will significantly shorten the journey."

"Yes!" His victory dance and fist pumping the air made Scott smile. "That's it! We will fly there. Who is a genius? I am!"

"What are you going to tell your dad?"

Stiles shrugged, unconcerned. "It's his long shift tomorrow, so he won't get back until well after dark, and by then we should be back. And if not, I'll just say the truth: we were exploring."

They crept outside through the window in Stiles's room just before dawn and shifted into bird forms behind the house. Nobody in their right mind would ever look there at that time, so it was as safe a place as could be. As usual, Stiles marvelled at the strange disappearance of their worldly possessions. So far no one has been able to answer where clothes and stuff mysteriously go during a shift, but there's always hope that someday he will find out.

With an excited caw, he took off, Scott not far behind. In moments like this, when he can forget himself in the vastness of the sky, wind under his wings, Stiles feels absolutely and amazingly free. His usually racing mind is calm, soul at peace. It's the most joyful experience of his life, nothing will ever beat it, he is sure. That flight was even better for the company, though. For the first few hours he and Scott chased each other and other — regular — birds. Stiles thinks they gave a swallow a scare of its life when they suddenly appeared on either side of it, emerging from a cloud.

He never came this far east before, never saw the hills of South Reach and the massive green carpet rolling for miles and miles, until it rolls over the horizon — the Brecilian Forest from up high. The view is amazing and slightly intimidating.

As much as he likes it, he rarely has an opportunity to — quite literally — stretch his wings, so even with the air currents, the flight was exhausting, and when they finally took down at the edge of the Forest, about an hour after noon, Stiles collapsed in a heap of limbs.

"I'm starving," he said, stretching on the grass. Something hard and sharp poked him in the back, but he felt too tired to move. He ran his tongue over dried lips. "Though I'd kill for a drink."

Scott threw a waterskin at his face.

"Thanks!" Stiles grinned, unscrewing the lid and taking several long gulps. The water was cool and tasted utterly divine.

After a rest and a meal, they moved into the Forest proper.

They had walked for some time, not meeting any wolves or bears, when Scott said, wonder in his voice, "The trees here are so different." He gestured around them, pointing at clearings with lush, bright vegetation. "It feels… lighter, somehow." He shrugged, unsure how to describe it, then paused to listen, mesmerised by the distant murmur of a waterfall.

Stiles, too, sensed it. The sun shone freely through the leaves that seemed to whisper to each other, caressed by a gentle wind. It wasn't just the difference between types of wood, rivers and ponds instead of the swamps, and the lack of a heavy fog… It — the Forest's character, or maybe its soul — felt different.

"No less tall, though," Stiles said, looking at huge trees that went up seemingly forever. "I heard some of them are even sentient."

To the left of their path, near a small pond, lay a fallen tree, its branches brushing the water. Nodding, Scott cautiously squatted next to it. "Ironbark," he said in an awed whisper. "Elves use it to make their weapons and armour."

"Bows I understand, but armour?" Stiles ran a hand over the blue-grey trunk. It was hard and unyielding to the touch. He hopped on it. "What's so special about it?"

"It's said to be as hard as steel and far lighter," Scott said in the same awed tone, then he glanced at Stiles, and his face shifted into a scandalised expression. "Stiles! Show some respect!"

"To a tree?" Stiles raised an eyebrow, balancing on his toes and wishing he was barefoot — it would be a lot easier to do without his sturdy leather boots.

"This is living wood!" Scott said, brows pulled together.

Stiles snorted and took a careful step to the right, closer to the roots. "I don't think I'm hurting its feelings. If—" He didn't get to finish, losing his balance and tumbling down on Scott, arms windmilling (pinwheeling?).

An arrow sailed through the place where his torso was just seconds ago. Not meeting any resistance, it disappeared into the Forest.

"Wha?.." he said, catching the tail end of its flight.

The second arrow thunked into the fallen tree. Stiles could have beaten himself silly. Somehow he had managed to completely forget about the Dalish. He looked at Scott, panic in his eyes, and hissed, "Run!"

They scrambled to untangle their limbs from each other and made a mad dash toward the thick bushes, keeping close to the ground and in the dubious protection of the tree. Stiles fleetingly regretted his disrespect for its feelings, but another arrow hit the earth just a breath away from his leg and knocked that thought right out of his mind.

"Why are they shooting at us?!" he said, trying to spot their attackers in brief glances over a large stone boulder he and Scott hid behind. It wasn't the best cover, but it was better than playing rabbits. Wolves, on the other hand…

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe they took offence with your treatment of their sacred tree?"

Stiles chewed on his lower lip. "You don't think it's actually sacred, do you?"

Scott answered with a flat look.

"Right, I have an idea—"

"Better be a good one."

"We need—" He forgot what he was going to suggest when Scott leaned over the boulder and got an arrow to the chest.

For a second, Scott's face went slack with shock and surprise, then the pain registered. Red bloomed on his tunic, soaking the linen and running down his torso, while he gritted his teeth and bore it like a true Chasind Wilder, only his closed eyes and pallor speaking of his suffering.

Stiles blinked and opened his eyes to the business ends of three drawn bows. Without thinking, he stepped forward and to the side, partially shielding Scott with his body (he is fourteen, all right? He still has time to grow big and tall, assuming he doesn't get killed in this altercation) and raised his sword.

"You shouldn't have come here, shems!" said the elf in the centre, contempt in his voice.

He didn't look all that different from the city elves that came to Lothering, none of the trio did. True, they held themselves straight, like any member of a notoriously proud race would, were clad in a sturdy looking leather armour and armed to the teeth. They also had curious tattoos running over their faces, but that was it. Despite the situation, Stiles found himself disappointed.

"I'm guessing it's not a term of endearment," he muttered on reflex.

Going by the sneers of the two younger elves flanking the leader on either side, they totally agreed with both statements.

"What, you own this forest?" he said louder.

"Of course not, you fool!" the elf snapped, fingers twitching on the bowstring.

_Right, best not to irritate him too much._ He chanced a glance at Scott and found him leaning on the boulder, sweat beading his forehead, staff held in a white-knuckled grip. _And make it quick._

"Then why in the Void were you shooting at us? Did you confuse Scott here with a deer? He doesn't look like a deer. No, he looks like a puppy! And you don't just go and make puppies into pincushions! Unless you are a horrible, terrible person, of course!" Stiles used his sword to emphasise his speech, waving it in places of exclamation points.

The leader's face filled with cold rage. He should have been a sallow faced fellow, Stiles thought. But in reality the elf was quite handsome. All three of their attackers were. Lithe, they moved with unearthly grace and had sharp features and noses that were meant for sneering. No wonder they did it so expertly. Arseholes.

"You, shems, are vermin," the lead arsehole said and totally deserved the capital letter. "And we all know what must be done with vermin." He took aim at Stiles, cruelty shining from his eyes.

Stiles swallowed.

_Good thing we didn't bring Bethany._ Of course, she wanted to come, but Gareth put his foot on it despite her proficiency with daggers. She even complained about him being a typical overprotective older brother, and Stiles even agreed with her. Now, though, he was glad for it. If she was here, staring at the arrowheads pointing at her heart… That would have turned an already shitty situation into a sewer dump.

He gripped his sword tighter and assumed a defensive position, ready to fight. Three against one weren't fair odds, but he wasn't going to roll over and die just 'cause he was told to. He felt Scott's arcane shield flare up, a tangible force almost brushing his back. Stiles once compared magic with the air: he could feel an arcane bolt hurtling his way the same way he did with an arrow. Momentarily, he was proud that Scott used the spell Stiles taught him — the Circle's spell — then his own magic conjured a similar shield around him without his conscious input.

Both Alan and Malcolm called him naturally talented, a prodigy. They said it like his magic was a gift from the Maker. Stiles thought of it as a curse. Magic was attuned to his mood to such extent that at times it seemed as if it had a mind of its own, choosing to act however it deemed necessary, conjuring spells he didn't even know existed. It was like a tide, a wild force of nature that he was struggling to contain. Both of his mentors focused more on how to harness and control it than on teaching him passes and incantations and have succeeded. Now it only got out of the iron shackles Stiles kept it in when he was threatened, afraid, or sick.

The leaves barely rustled, and two more elves sprung from the foliage, a man and a woman. They, too, held bows, but theirs were loosely grasped. Though Stiles didn't doubt their ability to aim in half the span of a heartbeat.

"What have you here?" asked the woman, facing Arsehole and his flunkies. Her long dark hair cascaded over her shoulders in loose curls, making her stand out even more in the group of male blonds.

"They stumbled too close to our camp," said Arsehole. "If we let them live, we will have to move." His voice was even, like he was talking about the weather.

The woman looked at Stiles and studied him and Scott briefly, before turning back. And while her face was unreadable, Stiles got the impression that she wasn't pleased. Her next words confirmed it.

"You can't be serious." She stared at Arsehole, incredulous.

He pulled his chin up and met her stare with that of his own. "We can't trust shems not to make mischief, Ioris."

She moved — to at least Stiles' surprise — to stand beside him. "They are just children, Harshal, and you've already injured one."

Her companion shifted slightly, then sighed and followed her.

Stiles would have been offended to be called a child if not for the circumstances. He's almost a man, and at a guess, he would say she's Scott's age. Although, with elves you never know if the girl you are asking for a dance on First Day has just reached adulthood, or if she is three decades older than your father. But anyway, he heard Scott's moan and turned in time to see him slid to the ground, his hand that was putting pressure over the arrow wound slackened. The Shield sputtered out, though the staff stayed clutched in his fist.

And that was how they came to here and now and to Stiles' thinking, _please, Maker, let him be all right!_

"Shit, shit, shit!" _Why in the Maker's name didn't he heal himself?!_ Then Stiles curses himself for being an idiot. _Of course_ he couldn't do it without removing the arrow first, and just yanking it out without running a diagnosis first can inflict even more damage.

Throwing caution to the wind and trusting his magic to do good — for once — and protect his back if the elves decide to start firing, Stiles falls to his knees next to Scott. Hands flying over his torso like two demented birds, Stiles mutters, "Come on, buddy, you are going to be fine, everything's going to be fine…" He keeps a steady flow of words that don't really register with his brain.

Scott's head lolls back. Blood leaks from the corner of his mouth.

All Stiles's attention turns inward, allowing him to concentrate on the assessment of Scott's condition. He extends his senses, and a picture forms in his mind's eye. As he suspected, it _is_ bad. The arrowhead is stuck between two ribs, but its tip punctured the lung. It is definitely not a matter of slapping a poultice over the wound and calling it a day. A ball of spiky ice forms in his gut, and panic starts to swell in his chest.

Distantly, he hears the elves arguing over what to do with them: "If you think the Keeper is going to thank you, you are an even bigger fool that you seem to be!" says the woman. "It is my right to protect our clan!" snaps Arsehole. "Don't, lethallan," says a new voice, placating. "I won't stand by while this _len'alas lath'din_ kills innocent _lenen_ , Tamlen," the woman again. "They are shemlen (1), they—" the same new voice. "What does it matter?" says the woman.

They go on, and on, and on. It would have really disturbed his concentration if not for countless hours of practice at calming his mind. Still, it doesn't help.

"Maker's smelly small clothes and hairy arse! Will you all just shut the fuck up?!" Stiles doesn't say. Instead, he takes a deep, measured breath, closes his eyes, and resolutely doesn't think of all that can go wrong. This is his only chance to save Scott. He can't let him down, no matter how terrified he is.

Tendrils of energy carefully slip off Stiles's shaking fingers. It feels like magic sings in his veins. Obeying his will, it cauterises torn arteries one by one. The bleeding slows down, then stops, but unless he removes the arrow, it will be for nothing.

_"Fenedhis! (2)"_ says the woman with such vehemence that he almost flinches at her suddenly very loud voice. "I'm tired of this shit! Either fight me or go away."

Arsehole delivers an angry tirade that doesn't need translation.

With a bit more effort than he would like, Stiles blocks them out completely and wraps his fingers around the shaft. _It must be made from Ironbark,_ crosses his mind. Scott's eyes move behind his eyelids.

"Sorry," Stiles whispers and braces himself for the pull.

"Let us help," says the woman right into his ear.

Stiles startles and barely keeps his hands steady. Glancing over his shoulder, he confirms that the arseholic trio is gone. The two remaining elves are kneeling at his side. When did they get so close and how did he not notice?!

"You can start by not giving me a heart attack," he says, heart racing.

Annoyance briefly crosses her face, then it smoothes into a neutral expression. "My apologies," she says, sincerely enough. "I will hold him down for you."

Stiles would prefer to not have witnesses, but he doubts she will just stand up, collect her friend, and go away if he says no. Besides, the help won't go amiss.

"Thanks," he says and shifts to give her more room.

She is deceptively strong for her petite frame, and when Scott involuntarily shudders in pain, she holds him down seemingly with ease. The arrowhead pulls free, and fresh blood wells in its place. And now comes the hard part. Stiles hurries to apply the elfroot poultice, the white cloth is like a snowy island in the red sea that is Scott's chest. Then he starts chanting.

The incantation is simple, and he has practised it so much that he can recite it in his sleep. The spell, too, isn't complicated, but it demands his full attention. For it to work, Stiles needs to imagine how all damaged parts return to their natural condition. It is a delicate work, and if he messes up, the results will be unpredictable.

He keeps still, lips barely moving, and to his observers it looks like Stiles is praying. It's a trick that Malcolm taught him a while ago: in Ferelden people generally respect faith and Chantry. If they think you are baring your soul to the Maker, most will politely avert their eyes.

Magic seeps into torn flesh, mending it, reknitting blood vessels and fractured bones. He has never done it before, and the way it feels is… strange. He hasn't seen an arrow wound before today, either. In Lothering all serious injuries are tended by a healer in the Chantry, so even when a Guardsman is carried there after an altercation — which rarely happens nowadays, thank the Maker — nobody in his right mind seeks an adolescent for help.

For many centuries now the Chasind have been peaceful folks. They live so far into the Wilds that nobody ever bothers them. And, Stiles is sure, their reputation helps as well. Studying under Alan, he helped to heal a number of sprained or broken limbs. With herbs and poultices, mostly. He never meant to be a healer, that's more Scott's stead.

The only other time he saw something close to Scott's injury was when one of the hunters got bitten by a wolf. The man got careless and allowed the creature to sneak up on him, which resulted in a loss of a huge chunk of his thigh. Stiles was nine when it happened and wasn't allowed to watch, but he still remembers the glimpse of a bloody mess surrounding the bone. That hunter lost his leg. "Even magic can't replace what is lost," Alan said then.

The last bit of muscles is pulled back together, and only superficial damage is left — skin deep as it is. No need to announce 'miraculous' recovery to the world.

Stiles ends the spell, slumping forward. Magic reluctantly subsides back under his skin. He opens his eyes to see a waterskin. He blinks at it, uncomprehending, then notices a slender hand is holding it for him.

"Thanks," he says to the woman, taking it. The leather is smoother and softer than its human made counterpart that rests in his backpack, a lovely embroidery runs along the edges, framing a beautiful tree that is situated at its middle. Even if it didn't come from a Dalish, he would know it was their craft at a glance. The water tastes fresh and surprisingly cold, like he is drinking straight out of a mountain spring (at least, that's how he imagines mountain springs taste. He has never been to the mountains).

"Is he going to be fine now?" asks the woman.

Stiles needs to stop thinking of her as "the woman."

"Yeah," he says, "the wound wasn't that deep."

Her eyes narrow, and for a long minute Stiles is convinced that he is busted, but then she gives a slight nod and says, "Must be his lucky day." And the moment passes.

The air whooshes out of his lungs, his shoulders relax. "If it was, we wouldn't be in this situation in the first place. No offence, but your clanmates are completely bonkers. Who goes around hunting _people_? Don't you, Dalish, have some kind of judicial system?" he finishes with a glare.

She regards him calmly, though her companion bristles. "Our ways is of no importance to you, human."

"Excuse me?" Stiles redirects his glare at a new target. "Do you see me trying to kill off random travellers? _We_ have laws against that. Killing without provocation is a crime in all Ferelden, and this forest, oh, surprise-surprise, is a part of it. It's illegal here, too!"

"We don't need your shem laws to—"

"Tamlen," says the woman, warning in her voice, a-and Stiles _really_ needs to ask her name.

The elf shuts up with a heated glare of his own. Clearly, this Tamlen fellow has no love for humans, and that makes Stiles wonder at their relationship. He has a feeling that if not for her, Tamlen might have joined on his and Scott's execution.

"Peace, len (3), I am going to inform the Keeper of their behaviour. Now, your friend is waking up."

Stiles turns back to Scott, and, sure enough, his eyelids flutter and soon he opens his eyes.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, buddy," Stiles says, smiling at him.

Scott smiles back. Usually, however, this sunny expression isn't accompanied by stains of dried blood on his face. His pallor is gone almost completely, and — if you ignore the blood — he looks normal. Then his gaze slides to the new faces. "Hello, who are you?"

"Ioris Mahariel of the Sabrae clan," says the woman, and Stiles finally can stop calling her that.

"Tamlen," says her companion after a nudge.

"I'm Scott of the Chasind Wilders. Pleasure to meet you," says Scott, beaming at them from his supine position, and Stiles looks at the sky in despair. Honestly, if he ever meets a talking darkspawn — if there were such a thing, of course — he'll probably try to befriend it, or something.

"Right," Stiles says. "Thanks for the help and all that, but now we need to go. Before any of your other clanmates make an appearance and decide" — he makes a 'you know' gesture — "to finish us off." And suddenly he is the centre of everyone's attention.

"What?" he says, uncomfortable under the weight of their gazes. Scott's in particular speaks volumes. "Ah. Stiles Stilinski. Can't say I'm overly happy to make your acquaintance, but your help is appreciated," he says to the elves and turns back to Scott, who regards him like a proud parent. "Can we move on now?"

"Sure." Scott sits up and grimaces, probably feeling the pull of the caked blood on his skin. "I'd like to clean up before we hit the road, though. Is there something suitable nearby?" The question is directed at Ioris and delivered with such adorable puppy eyes that Stiles is emphatically _not_ surprised when she offers to show the way. Those eyes work even on Dalish. Figures. Pity that Scott didn't have the chance to use them on their attackers.

Ioris leads them to a small waterfall that has a pond at its base. They take their time soaking in the cool water. Stiles feels shaken and unsettled after the nerve-wrecking events of the past hour, and submerging into the depths of the pool calms him, if only a bit.

Even with blood more or less washed out, Scott's tunic is ruined. Stiles had to tear it around the arrow to widen his access to the wound, and without a sewing kit they have no hope of making it whole again. As far as he knows, no spell can do that, more is the pity. His magic is restless, itching at his fingertips, and that makes him want to prowl until exhaustion claims his body, as it already has his soul.

The elves join them in the pond, and after some time even Tamlen loses his tight-lipped expression, though Stiles doubts that anything short of a miracle can make him like them. Ah, no matter. It's not like they need to be in his good graces. With any luck, this will be the only time they see each other. At the moment, he has precisely zero inclination toward returning here any time soon.

"I heard that Dalish clans are nomadic," says Scott in a — genuinely — light and friendly voice, sitting on the grassy shore with legs ankle-deep in the pond. "Does your clan travel through the Forest only?"

Head pillowed on Scott's thigh and drawing lazy circles in the water with right hand, Stiles turns to look at the elves, waiting for their reaction.

"What is it to you?" says Tamlen from his perch on a large sun-warmed rock. The water definitely had some effect on him, too, because he omits racial slurs.

Ioris throws a pebble at him. It bounces off his shin and falls into the pond with a _plonk!_ With a smirk, she rolls her eyes at his scowl.

"Usually our people travel far and wide across Thedas," she replies. "Our clan tends to stay in Ferelden, though we have crossed to Orlais twice in recent years." She looks at them askance. "We only just returned to the Forest, however, and would prefer to stay where we are. It is no easy thing to find a suitable spot for aravels, you know."

Stiles once saw a picture of their wagons with sails in a book written by Brother Genitivi. He might or might not have borrowed it from the Chantry and forgot to return in a timely fashion. And then it just seemed imprudent because, surely, if he put it back now, it would have attracted attention. Despite its dry language, _In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar_ turned out to be a surprisingly engaging read. And Beth even said that it made her want to travel again. Anyway, the aravels didn't look small, but he knows for sure that Dalish use magic on their ships to move freely and easily and that the way and the end destination are picked by Hallas pulling them. At least, that's what the book said. Still, he rolls to the side and nods in understanding.

"No worries, we aren't going to blab your location. Besides, my dad is a Guardsman." Stiles says it in a way that makes it plain as day that he doesn't think any other explanation is necessary. For him it is like a universal law: you can trust Ferelden Guards to keep you safe.

However, this is not the case with Tamlen, who tries to put their integrity in question, but even his argument — based on them being humans, naturally — doesn't hold up. He has literally no evidence of their misdemeanour. (Stiles knows for a fact that it does exist, but the Guards deal with any misdeeds themselves. With swift brutality, as is befit Fereldan warriors.) Besides,

"Clearly, you don't know much about them," Stiles says with an eye roll, "since about a third of their contingent consist of your kin."

"They are no kin of mine," sneers Tamlen, leaning forward. "They have forsaken the gods and chosen to serve shems! Where's their pride? They have none for they are willing slaves!" he finishes, eyes bright and intense. And there goes all their progress.

Scott throws his hands up, palms turned outward in a peace gesture, as if to say, 'Easy there.' "I'm sorry you feel this way," he says in a solemn voice. "We, Chasind Wilders, understand the importance of preserving your lore and freedom."

They share a long look, staring at each other without blinking. At last, Tamlen inclines his head — a tiny, almost imperceptible movement — and visibly calms down. It seems, they have reached some kind of understanding.

During this exchange, Ioris, like Stiles, stayed silent and watched them with curiosity written in her features. She was pondering something, Stiles realises, seeing the moment she comes to a decision.

Glancing at the piece of sky visible between tree crowns and then sending Tamlen a weighted look that clearly means something, she stands up and says, "It's time for us to part ways. If nothing happens, our clan is going to stay here for some time. Years, likely. If you ever find yourself in these parts, camp close to the ruins near the Brecilian Passage, and I will find you." Her lips form a lopsided grin. "I will make sure nobody attacks you again."

It is an unexpected offer, to say the least. Stiles feels the significance of the moment and has to swallow several inappropriate comments. To the void if he knows why his brain comes up with them in the most inopportune times. Standing up as well, he thanks her for the offer. Scott asks for directions back to the main trail, and after the round of farewells, the elves disappear into the foliage, the rustling of leaves concealed by the waterfall.

Alone at last, Stiles turns to Scott and hugs him, holding on for dear life. Pressing his ear to Scott's chest, he listens to his heartbeat. The sound is reassuringly strong and even.

"Thank you," Scott says a while later, stepping back to look him in the eyes but still holding Stiles's arms — a palm width lower his shoulders — in a tight grip.

"Don't mention it, mate. You'd do the same for me," Stiles says without a shadow of a doubt.

"True." Scott nods and, in a rare moment of insight, adds, "But it wouldn't _be_ the same for me."

A little later they finally remember the original purpose of this trip. By unspoken agreement, they turn into wolves. It's interesting how black haired Scott is tawny brown while Stiles' coat is dark as a moonless night.

Hunting in this form is a lot easier. Each sense is enhanced so much that Stiles can tell that they were the first humans to come to the waterfall in a long time. They shouldn't have dawdled in the first place. If only they had gotten down to business immediately… With a head shake, Stiles stops this pointless chain of thought and sniffs around. They have already lost too much daylight, no point in delaying their return even further.

Scott is the first to pick a trail (he's had more practice at it, living in the Wilds and all). It is very fresh: a rabbit run here only — Stiles inhales — an hour ago. Scott glances at him, mouth open in a doggy grin, and flicks tongue over his nose. In this form he is huge and menacing. If Stiles didn't know him and just stumbled across his path, he'd be scared shitless. Then Scott's tail wags, reflecting his mood, and a scary beast turns into an overgrown puppy.

Stiles snorts and nudges him with his muzzle. Scott retaliates by snapping his jaw near Stiles's neck, and the next several minutes they spend in a playful scuffle. Scott wins, of course: his adolescent strength is no much for Scott's. Lying on his belly with Scott's front paws thrown over his back and pinning him to the soft grass, he yaps in surrender, and Scott releases him with a parting friendly nip of his ear. Springing to his feet, Stiles howls and, nose to the ground, jumps on the rabbit's trail, leaving Scott to catch up.

Twenty minutes later they take up into the sky. He is more than happy to leave the Forest behind. Two large hares with mostly undamaged fur (Stiles is new to this, all right? It's his second hunt as an animal) rest in Scott's backpack.

*** * ***

They reach Lothering well after sundown and get into the house the same way they left — creeping through the window. Stiles lets the gravity pull his onto his bed, exhaustion weighing his limbs like iron manacles, and hits it already asleep. In his dream he is running through the sky in his wolf form, jumping over clouds as if they are solid objects.

Something is chasing after him. Something huge — it blots the fickle iridescent light of the Fade. His hackles raised, Stiles is too afraid to look. He hears a steady dripping — _plop, plop, plop_ — and a heavy breathing, but no sound of footsteps. Finally, after what seems like forever, his tired muscles give up: front paws catch on nothing, and he stumbles and can't stand back up. His pursuer is getting closer — the dripping and breathing are so loud now, the monster might very well be right next to his ears. Swallowing, Stiles gathers his courage. He won't go down cowering like a coward. On trembling legs he crawls to face the threat…

But there is nothing. An empty spot about the size of a barn somehow blocks the light, fat drops of blood fall around it. It moves, radiating an aura of malice, and the bloody shower moves with it. Stiles becomes aware that he is human again and his lips are moving. He is whispering… a name? He can't hear himself, but the syllables' shapes are familiar. Deep down in the animal part of his brain lies the knowledge of this thing. It steps closer. His own voice rises, and Stiles hears himself name the thing. He screams.

And wakes himself up. His throat is so raw, it feels like he screamed for a long time, but that can't be true. Scott and Dad couldn't have missed it. They haven't.

"What was that?" Scott asks. A ball of bluish light appears at the snap of his fingers, and Stiles is momentarily distracted from his terror by the pull on the Fade the spell leaves behind. Like ripples left on a pond's surface by a thrown pebble. Scott is peering at him through half-opened eyes, hair sticking to the side in a wild mess.

"A bad dream," Stiles croaks. His forehead glisters with cold sweat. The sheets on his bed are drenched like he ran all that dreamt distance physically, and his racing heart wants to attest to that too. "Just a bad dream," he says, swallowing all the dread that's trying to spring from his tongue, "nothing more."

Scott is going to say something, but the door opens, and Dad beats him to it.

"You all right, kids?" he asks.

For a moment both Dad and Scott look dead, like fresh corpses. Deep shadows lie across their pale blue faces, black pits stare at him from their eye-sockets. _The magic light doesn't compliment anyone's complexion, but that's taking it a bit too far,_ Stiles thinks, a giggle tickling the back of his throat. He blinks, and the vision vanishes. Swallowing, he bites the giggle back.

"Everything is fine. Sorry for waking you up. Dinner didn't agree with me, that's all." His voice sounds normal, or at least as normal, as he can make it, but Dad sees through his bravado and comes into the room.

"You sure?" he asks, touching Stiles's forehead. "Maker, you are freezing!"

Stiles shrugs. "I didn't notice." Then again, right now he might not notice his hands and feet falling off. His insides feel frozen solid.

Dad pulls him into a half-hug, rubbing his arms with quick movements while Stiles sits on the bed like a puppet doll, completely unresponsive. "Let's change you into something dry, shall we?"

Together with Scott, Dad manages to dress him in a woollen shirt and pull him into a nest of blankets on the floor that serves as Scott's bed. Even wrapped in a duvet, he can't stop shivering.

"I don't want to sleep," Stiles stutters — his teeth won't stop chattering. His head falls on Dad's shoulder.

"You don't need to," Dad says, rubbing his back. "Just rest."

Sitting on his other side, Scott takes his trembling hand and squeezes it in a silent show of support. In this moment, chilled to the bone and shaking with residual fear, Stiles is overcome by the love he feels for them. He is so incredibly lucky to have Dad and Scott that he can't put it into words. He wishes that Beth and Gareth could be here.

"Thanks," he says, squeezing Scott's hand back. His free hand is clutching the duvet.

"It's all right, kiddo," Dad says, kissing his forehead. "All is going to be fine."

Backs leaning on the wall, they sit together in a blanket nest on the floor until the light starts to creep in beneath the curtains. Scott's magic light snuffs out, signalling that he has fallen asleep, and his fingers relax in Stiles's hand. Dad is next. Stiles can tell when he surrenders the fight by his breathing — deep and even.

Sitting here, watching the light getting brighter with eyes that burn from the lack of moisture, Stiles tries and fails to remember the name that he said in the Fade.

*** * ***

When Stiles wakes up, it's already close to midday. After his impromptu vigil, he was too tired to dream again, thank the Maker. He sits up and stretches, duvet pooling on his lap. A gust of cold autumn wind blows through the open window, and Stiles shivers.

"Morning," says Scott from his perch on the windowsill. "Your dad's already left."

"Ye—" Stiles yawns "—ah, I know. It's his busy week." He yawns again and rubs his eyes. Someone stuffed his head with heavy fog when he wasn't looking. When he looks up, squinting, Scott is watching him, completely ignoring a book he's holding. Hm. "So. What's up?"

Scott's face rearranges from 'intent observation' into 'vaguely concerned' expression. "You all right?" he asks.

Stiles tilts his head and concentrates, as if listening to something. "I'd sleep a bit more, but other than that — good enough."

"No sudden violent urges?" Scott leans forward, and the book, forgotten, slides from his thighs and falls to the floor with a soft thud. They both ignore it in favour of staring at each other. No one wants to blink first.

"I'm not possessed if that's what you are implying," Stiles says, at last.

"You sure?" Scott frowns. "I'm not convinced I'd see the difference in your face either way."

Stiles snorts. "Oi! I'll have you know, I'm very handsome! Bethany said so."

"Oh, well, if _Bethany_ said so… She might need glasses."

"Hey! Leandra said so, too!"

"Poor sight must be a family trait, then," Scott says with a nod.

Stiles throws a pillow at his face. Scott dodges, and it sails out of the window. They look at each other again and burst out laughing.

"I'm glad you are fine," says Scott later when the hilarity died down and the pillow is back in the room. "Want to talk about it?"

"Not really, no. Fade, demons, eternal horror." Stiles shrugs, though he isn't sure what it was. He doesn't remember, and it scares him more than he wants to admit. Still, he plasters a lopsided grin on his face and says, "You know, the usual mage stuff, nothing to worry about."

Scott doesn't look convinced, but then Stiles's stomach growls, and he nods and says, "Yeah." Draping his arm around Stiles's shoulders, he leads him to the kitchen. "The usual."

*** * ***

An hour later they go to the Hawks. At first, nobody answers at Stiles's knock, which is strange: at least Leandra should be home at this time. A sick, uneasy feeling settles in his stomach. _Maybe something has happened?_ But then, just before he can voice this thought, the door finally opens.

Gareth looks like he went through a round with an Archdemon, then visited Tevinter to spit on magisters, and — just for shit and giggles — stopped by the Black City, fighting his way there and back again. In short, he looks awful. Over his shoulder, Stiles sees the twins and their mother: Beth is sobbing like the world is ending and the sun won't rise come tomorrow. Carver is no better. Leandra, a crying child hugging her on either side, sits on the low couch like a rag doll, lifeless and unmoving.

He hears Scott swallow. His stomach plummets into the earth, straight to the Deep Roads. Stiles asks, "What?.." but doesn't finish the question. The meaning is clear, anyway.

Gareth's red-rimmed eyes focus on his face. In a hoarse voice, he says, "Father is dead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Shem (quick, fast) is derived from “shemlen,” the elven word for humans meaning “quickling” or “quick children.”  
> Lethallan (Lethallin) — casual reference used for someone with whom one is familiar. Lethallan is used for females, and lethallin is used for males, but this is not always the case. Akin to "cousin" or "clansman" since "lin" is the word for blood.  
> Len’alas lath’din — (len-ALL-us LATH-deen) an insult meaning “dirty child no one loves.”  
> Lenen — children.  
> ** Fenedhis — a common curse. Presumably, means “wolf’s penis.”  
> *** Len — child.
> 
> Elfroot is used in healing potions; deathroot — in poisons.
> 
> The demon in Stiles’s dream is the Formless One, one of [the Forbidden Ones](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/The_Forbidden_Ones)


	9. Interlude 2

**_“_** _But what is this, that I can’t see  
_ _with ice cold hands taking hold of me._ ** _”  
_ ** _\- Oh, Death — Jen Titus_  


**9:27 Dragon, 3 Kingsway**

Malcolm Hawke dies on the 3th of Kingsway, in the 27th year of the Dragon Age. He doesn’t die alone, but surrounded by his sons. The circumstances leading to this event aren’t what anyone can call fortunate: a simple hunt in the woods turned into a bloodbath when they were ambushed by maleficarum. The fate is a strange thing — half his life he feared the Templars, always looking over his shoulder, never letting his guard down… Only to be killed by his own kind in the end, his blood used and turned against him.

He dies thinking of his wife and children: he didn’t kiss Leandra goodbye when they left in the wee hours of the morning. He hasn’t taught Bethany that last kinetic shield that he considered too difficult — he wanted to wait till her next year. The trip to Denerim he planned in secret to surprise the kids and Leandra with will never happen. The smith hasn’t finished the sword he commissioned for Carver’s birthday, and the book for his twin won’t arrive for a week. He regrets so much and has done so little… He thinks of all the words he didn’t say, and all the smiles he didn’t see, and all the kisses he didn’t give or get, and he achingly, desperately _doesn’t want_ to die.

Carver holds his hand, fingers cold and sweaty, while Gareth presses a poultice that won’t help to the wound in his abdomen, blood is seeping through the thin fabric. It is too little, too late, and not enough. Nothing could help him, save for a miracle or a proficient healer. There isn’t one in sight.

They are kneeling over him. The earth is soft, and muddy, and red. It stains their clothes with dark brown streaks, and Malcolm thinks that it will be hard to clean later when the blood sets in. Leandra won't be pleased. Then he thinks that it probably won't matter, considering that he... Well. He will be dead. She will have to deal with it somehow. Laundry will be the last of their problems.

With the last of his strength, he squeezes Carver’s hand, waits until their eyes meet. “I’m proud of you,” he says. One less regret to carry into the Fade. 

He turns to his other son. Gareth, his oldest, reliable and steadfast, always quick with a smile or a scathing word, and with a sword. His first and — he is ashamed to admit — favourite child. He sees sorrow and anguish in them both, but in Gareth he sees the iron will that shines through his pain.

“Take care of them,” he says, coughing. Red spit bubbles over his lips. “I’m counting on you.”

Gareth swallows a sob and takes his other hand. “I promise, father.” 

He will keep this promise to the best of his abilities. Nobody knows or even can guess it yet, but it won’t be enough. In the end, nothing he does will be enough to keep his family together. He will inevitably lose them all one way or another.

Malcolm smiles, blinks: once, twice, and the third time his eyes stay closed. 

Carver cries now, forgetting to think that he is too old for it. Grief renders him weak, and he slumps forward, tears falling on the unmoving chest. This sunny autumn day the seeds of fear and resentment of magic are planted. It will take time to take roots and grow, and he will always love his twin, but. Today he hates mages for the first time.

Malcolm Hawke dies on an afternoon too warm for Kingsway, with his sons by his side, surrounded by the corpses of the blood mages that killed him.


	10. To Denerim [part 1]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? A new chapter?! Hard to believe, I know.

_“Bees do have a smell, you know, and if they don't they should, for their feet are dusted with spices from a million flowers.”_  
_― Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine_  
  
**9:27 Dragon, 17 Haring  
**   
The bard starts the Ballad of Calenhad the Great yet again, and Elric winces. As if it isn’t bad enough they have to listen to his voice at all, now he decides to sing the longest song in all Thedas in a way that makes grand adventures sound like dust gathering by handpicking motes one by one.

Despite dubious entertainment, Dane’s Refuge is packed. The din of conversations rises in waves, and the bard ups his volume until he gives a shrill note on the verse of Calenhad becoming the teyrn of Denerim, and raucous laughter fills the tavern.

Elric grins into his ale, the tension going out of his body. He has half expected the bard to repeat Calenhad’s deed, only instead of uniting Ferelden under the same banner, he would have united the people in running him off the stage with food and plates turned into projectiles. As satisfying as that would be, the evening would be over, and Elric can’t allow it. He promised Danal to look after his men, and that includes stopping brash behaviour and property damage.

“Here to the Captain!” Rohna, a dark-haired archer that joined the Lothering garrison only two months ago, raises her tankard.

“Here, here!” comes a discordant chorus of fellow Guardsmen as they copy her gesture, ale spilling onto the tables. They have been at it for the better part of the evening, toasting Elric every other drink, and now even usually aloof Revas, their one and only Dalish, cracks a smile in Elric’s direction. Though as soon as Rohna winks at him, the scowl returns to the elf’s face.

Shaking his head, Elric gives him a month. That girl is tenacious _and_ crafty, and no matter how openly Revas disdains city elves, just yesterday Elric found him spying on her training session. And wasn’t _that_ a fun conversation to have on his first day as the Captain of the Guards?

Maker, he still can’t believe Old Jory retired! Of course, he couldn’t have served forever. When Elric first came to Lothering, everyone was already calling him old, and now Jory can easily change that part of his name to Ancient, but he was the only immutable point for all these years. It just feels strange not to have the old coot in the office anymore.

The crowd is getting restless again. One of the regulars shouts to Danal for more ale and to _‘stop torturing our ears, you daft bastard!’_ in the direction of the stage. That brings more laughter and cries of agreement, spiced with half-serious threats of strangulation and several creative, if impossible, ways to do with a lute.

Stopping mid-phrase, the bard changes the tune to an upbeat rhythm, starting a half-decent rendition of Hero in Every Port. His voice has all the cheer of the condemned, but the drunks at the far table pick up the line. The Guards, not to be outdone, join too, and soon, a slurring refrain of “Nuggins! Nuggins!” booms from all sides.

Doren slings his arm over Elric’s shoulders, almost deafening him with, “Tripped him an admiral, now he's our captain! Nuggins, Nuggins! For me and for you!” and Elric laughs. They clink tankards at, “Tripped up the darkspawn, and now he's a Warden!” And finish their drinks in time to sing the last stanza with everyone else.

“Oh,” sighs the tavern as one. “Paraded through Kirkwall as hero and winner!” continues the song.

“Nuggins, Nuggins! Stubborn and vicious!” sing the bard and patrons. Even Danal, swept by the merriment, says the words while filling mugs with ale.

“Tripped up a viscount, now he's for dinner!” The tankards go up, hover just a breath…

“Nuggins, Nuggins!”

...And plummet onto the tables. “Of course he's delicious!”

And on this cheerful line, all customers of Dane’s Refuge erupt into laughter once more.

“That was fun,” Doren says into Elric’s ear, the smell of garlic and dwarven ale heavy on his breath. He was the only one of the Guards to pick up the challenge of developing a taste for the viscous black liquid when Carrot and Briana issued it during the last Wintersend, and now Doren insists on drinking it at every celebration even though he always passes out after the third fill and inevitably suffers from an epic hangover the next morning. Elric can’t decide if it’s stubbornness, pride, or a hidden craving for punishment that prevents Doren from admitting defeat. Either way, he will never understand the Avvar.

“Didn’t know the bugger has it in him,” Doren adds, the tiny bells in his braids jingling.

“At least, he doesn’t drone bad poetry day in and day out,” Elric says, suppressing a shudder.

“True, that. I swear to Maker, if I ever hear Ode to Bees again, I’m going to turn black and yellow!”

“Oh, that one wasn’t so awful.” Carrot chuckles. His actual name is Carroll though, thanks to his unruly bright orange mane, nobody ever calls him that. It’s a ridiculous nickname for a burly middle-aged dwarf, but Carrot doesn’t mind.

Elric asked him about it once, back when he was a newbie at the outpost and Carrot was his superior officer. The dwarf shrugged, calm as ever, and said, “It could have been worse but isn’t, now. You have to earn it and grow into the name,” not pausing for a second in sharpening his enormous two-handed axe. To this day, Elric has no idea what he meant by that.

“You are lucky you haven’t heard the one about _‘Deep Dwarven Riches.’ That_ was a one of a kind experience I don’t care to repeat.” Carrot shudders and downs his ale to wash away the memory.

“As I recall, it got Minstrel Lucien a black eye from our esteemed healer and sent him out of Lothering altogether. Isn’t that right, Sila?” Elric raises an eyebrow.

“Aye, aye, Captain!” She salutes him with a tankard, goes to take a sip, and pulls a face. “You can thank me by getting me a refill. Ser!”

“I think we _all_ owe you a drink,” Elric says. That bard was dreadful, even worse than the one before him. At least, Tamlik, after unsuccessful attempts to promote his own creations, usually defaulted to Dane and the Werewolf, not to a poem about bees of all things. Though even that got old really fast. “Who else wants more while I’m at it?” he asks, getting up.

Half of the Guards do, so with two empty tankards in each hand, Elric makes his way to the bar. It’s slow going: at every table, someone stops him with a clap on the shoulder or a toast in his honour. Everyone want to congratulate him in person, even random strangers who stopped in Lothering on their way to other destinations. They all seem happy for him, glad that their safety is assured. It’s flattering, heartening, and a little baffling, so Elric smiles, and nods, and thanks, and smiles again, feeling like he is wading through a loud, well-meaning molasses.

“I see your men managed to restrain themselves this time,” Danal says, the wry twist of his lips barely visible under his bushy moustache.

“For now,” Elric agrees lightly, “but fear not, if this bard continues to be a bore, their patience will eventually run out.”

Danal snorts, taking the empty mugs and starting to refill them.

“What’s the talk around the town? Any rumours?” Elric asks. When it comes to gossip, barkeepers and merchants are the first people to know anything of use, and Danal is invaluable in that regard. He provided several tips that led to swift justice. Quite often, his tales prove golden, but sometimes—

“I hear the Queen of Antiva took up with a Crow and declared their order her official law enforcers from now on,” Danal says, lowering his voice just a little, as if a mere mention of the Antivan Crows might bring a silent assassin on his head.

—they are outrageous.

Trained by years of friendship with Kylon and raising Stiles, Elric keeps a straight face effortlessly. “Anything else?”

“Bryland Cousland’s prize mabari gave birth to a litter of fine pups. Thing is, everyone thought it was a sire, not a bitch. Nice surprise, that, I imagine.”

“Uh-huh.” Elric eyes the last empty mug. Not that it’s not interesting, but the Teyrn of Highever’s new puppies don’t even make it _near_ his priorities list.

“Oh, and I hear” — Danal’s voice drops to an ominous whisper, or to what can be reasonably passed as a whisper in a bar full of loud drunks — “the bloodhound of Kinloch Hold is on the trail and her road might bring her to Lothering.” Danal pauses, waiting for a reaction that Elric refuses to provide and, handing Elric a loaded tray, finishes at a regular volume, “That’s what I heard, anyway. Make of it what you will.”

Unpleasant shivers run down Elric’s back as he thanks the barkeeper and returns to his table. The Guards take new drinks with much enthusiasm, but Elric’s jovial mood has evaporated like morning mist under the sun. Apostate hunters spell bad new, always, and Rylock is the worst of them. If her reputation is to be believed, she can sniff magic and spot maleficarum with a passing glance, hence the nickname.

Spotting Ser Bryant, Elric catches his gaze. The templar waves and raises his tankard, and Elric excuses himself and goes to join him for a drink.

“I hear the bloodhound is on the prowl,” Elric says, once the first two rounds of toasts are out of the way. “Let me guess —” he scrunches his forehead, mocking a deep thought process; then, his expression clears, his eyes going wide “— it’s Anders again.”

Bryant laughs along with his companion, a pretty elven woman he introduced as Elisa. “You knew.” He shakes his head. “That mage is nothing if not persistent.”

“It’s what, his third attempt?”

“Fourth, and I’m sure it isn’t the last. Anders is lucky he passed the Harrowing,” Bryant says in a more serious tone, “or he’d be made tranquil by now. Though, just between you, me, and the gatepost, Ser Rylock still insists on it.” He leans over the table closer to Elric, creating an air of confidentiality. “She terrifies new recruits into stuttering.”

“That woman _is_ scary,” Elric agrees with a lopsided grin glued to his face. He only met Rylock twice, thank the Maker. Both during Anders’ escape attempts. The first time happened about six months after Anders had been carted into the Circle: somehow, he made it all the way back to Lothering, only to be caught right before the mill. Poor boy didn’t even get the chance to see his mother. Were it possible, Elric would have helped him, but so long as the templars have Anders’ phylactery, there’s nothing to be done.

“You didn’t hear it from me,” Bryant says, “but rumour is, the First Enchanter hired a mercenary to beat her to Anders. She’ll be in the foulest mood, I gather. Ha, and Rylock actually _likes_ you! Maybe you will cheer her up when she swings by your station to congratulate you in person. We are expecting her in six days.” He accompanies his words with a wink.

Elric’s face must be comically startled because Bryant bursts out laughing. In different circumstances, Elric would have found it amusing, he supposes, but with Rylock being the lady in question, he is hard pressed not to grab Stiles and run for the hills, praying to the Maker to hide them very, very well.

“Pity I won’t be here to greet her, then,” Elric says, thinking fast. No way is he going to risk that bloody zealot coming across his son. Besides, he hasn’t seen Kylon in a long time. “I’m needed at the Denerim headquarters. Official busyness, you understand.”

“I’ll drink to that!” Bryant smiles and raises his tankard.

Soon after, Elric leaves the templar to his date. He makes rounds around the tavern, keeping an eye on his men, but his thoughts are thousands of miles away. The evening is irrevocably ruined.

* * *

The next day, Elric starts preparations for the journey by telling Stiles about it.

“How do you feel about celebrating First Day in Denerim this year?” he asks, leaning back in his seat.

Stiles chokes and coughs, small bits of porridge flying out of his mouth.

Elric patiently hands him a cup of weak tea. They are running low on red berries, and he decides to go to the market later. Maybe he will even see—

“Way to spring the news, Dad,” Stiles says between gulps. “What brought this on? Did something happen?”

“I’d like to go over some paperwork left by Old Jory. He’s leaving for Highever in a fortnight, going to live with his daughter and her family there. Danal says Lord Cousland’s mabari had puppies. Hm.” Elric scratches his chin. _It would be nice to have a dog. Maybe—_ He wrenches his thoughts back on track, gaze snapping to Stiles. “Do you think the Hawkes will accompany us to Denerim?”

Stiles’ spoon friezes near his mouth. He blinks. “And you wonder at my non-sequiturs. What’s really going on?”

Elric picks up his own cup and takes a sip. The tea tastes like barely flavoured water. “Nothing. I just think it would be good for them to change the scenery. Leandra hasn’t been herself since Malcolm died, and…” Elric sighs. “I’m worried about the kids.”

“Gareth is an adult now,” Stiles points out.

Elric gives him a look.

“All right, all right, old man.” Stiles raises his hands. The spoon dangles from his fingers, dribbling sticky off-white blobs onto the table, and he hastily plops it into his bowl. “I’ll ask. Beth said they’ve never been there, so they’ll probably agree.”

They fall quiet. Elric drinks his tea, his gaze unfocused. Stiles chews the last two spoonfuls, drains his cup, places it into the bowl, and moves it away. The rough ceramic drags on the table, and Elric winces but doesn’t reprimand his son. The silence persists. Then,

“So will you tell me what’s up now?”

“Stiles.” He can see a headache on the horizon, inevitable like the sound of thunder after a bolt of lightning splits the sky.

_“Da-ad.”_

They stare at each other, both equally stubborn. No one wants to give in. Stiles’ fingers waltz across the freshly scratched wood and snatch Elric’s cup. He surrenders it without resistance. It wasn’t doing anything for him, anyway.

“You know that if you don’t tell me now, I’ll just ask around later, right?”

Sighting, Elric rolls his eyes, his shoulders slumping. “Fine. Your curiosity will be the death of me.”

“Nonsense!” Stiles waves a hand. Tea splashes over his fingers. He glances at it with some surprise and puts the cup down. “You will die of old age in a comfy bed, surrounded by grand-grandchildren. Now, Dad.”

“Ser Rylock is coming to Lothering,” Elric says. “She is _unhappy._ ”

“You mean more than usual?” Stiles arches an eyebrow. Apparently, he remembers her more than well enough, even though he met her only once, long before his gift manifested. _Small mercies._

“The First Enchanter had—”

“Pissed her off in a huge way?”

“Stiles.” In just one word, Elric expresses all his parental disapproval. This skill came naturally with being Stiles’ father and was reinforced by a lot of practice. “But yes, you are right,” he says, moving on. “She is out for blood. More than usual.”

“I’ll make sure Gareth gets it in case Leandra doesn’t want to go places,” Stiles says slowly, his eyes wide, and Elric nods. They understand each other.

* * *

The morning crawls along as expected. Thanks to Revas’ barbed tongue, Sila refuses to dispense the remedy, and Devin, their other healer, will sooner walk into a High Dragon’s maw than go against his wife’s wishes, so most of the Guards suffer hangovers of various intensity, much to Elric’s amusement.

When the bell finally tolls midday, he can’t put the paperwork away fast enough, which is, of course, why he overturns an inkwell. A large black spot spreads over the desk. The half-filled report on the use of medical resources Elric spent hours composing rapidly soaks it up.

“Maker’s hairy balls and ugly buttocks!”

The door opens. A light, melodious jingle announces his visitor before Doren’s head appears in the doorway. “You all right, Boss?” His eyebrows disappear into his hairline as Doren takes in the scene. _“Again?”_

“Fine,” Elric says, giving up salvaging the paper and using it to clean the tabletop instead. He sighs. “I hate this flimsy Orlesian thing. I swear, it’s trying to sabotage my work. And the scary thing is —” Elric glares at the egg-shaped glass vial “— it’s succeeding.”

“It can’t be too bad,” Doren says, coming in to help. His forehead creases. “Can it?”

“This is the fourth time today!” Elric makes a grab for the inkwell, wanting to hurt it at the wall, but aborts the motion before his fingers close on the delicate porcelain. His shoulders drop. The way the day is going, he’ll hit one of Stiles’ drawings, and that’d be a tragedy. He’s only put up his two favourites — one with stick figures of their family when Stiles was three, and another a charcoal sketch of a raven. The bird perches on a branch, watching the room with a black eye, startlingly realistic. Stiles made it under Malcolm’s tutelage not long before the mage died. He and Elric weren’t exceptionally close, but his absence left a void in all of their lives that’s taking its damn time to seal. He sighs, pulls a rag out of the lowest drawer, glances at the bane of his existence, also known as a present for his promotion, and starts mopping the rest of the ink. “I can’t even throw it away because when Sila finds out about it, I won’t get any healing, ever. She’ll leave me to die on the battlefield.”

Doren, who managed to obtain a vast collection of potions that can put any herbalist to tears of envy, shrugs. “Tough to be you, Boss.”

“Your sympathy is noted.”

Doren snorts, disposing the last of the ruined documents into the bin. Elric straightens up and, frowning, expects his stained fingers.

“Off to the market?” Doren asks, offering him a handkerchief smelling faintly of lavender and soapwort.

Elric splashes it with the leftovers of his tea and sets to work. “As a matter of fact, I am. What of it?”

“Oh, nothing, really.” Clamping his lips shut, Doren looks away. “I should go check on” — his gaze meanders to the window and to the training grounds where a young dwarf circling their Dalish elf suddenly disappears in a cloud of grey powder — “Briana, see that she doesn’t maim Revas. Much.” He chuckles.

Elric’s eyes narrow, but— His shift is over. The faster he gets out of here, the less chance something comes up and forces him to stay. He picks up his coat from a peg and shrugs it on.

“Don’t burn down the stables.”

“You got it, Boss!” Doren’s jovial voice promises.

The building housing the Guards is on the smaller side. Four desks, weapon and armour racks lining the walls, and a cot in a secluded corner crowd the main room, leaving an aisle wide enough for two people of average size to walk shoulder to shoulder from the entrance to Elric’s new office. The sounds of a quill scratching a parchment and a whisper of a pestle against a mortar follow Elric as he strides along. At the last moment, just when he’s about to step outside, Sila calls after him from her station,

“Say hello to your lass for me, Captain!”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Elric says and lets the door drop closed behind him, cutting off Sila’s laughter. Without consulting with his head, his hand goes to the inner pocket of his coat and pats it. The familiar oval shape is here, lying against his breastplate.

The market is bustling with activity. Every winter, starting at the first week of Haring, merchants slowly trickling to Denerim inevitably stop in Lothering for a day or two, so all month long the public square is flooded with wares from all across Thedas. Though the day is chilly — Elric’s breath clouds in the air — Fereldan unpredictable weather granted them a respite from a long stretch of overcast sky and flurries dumping snow on their heads. The wind died down sometime in the night, and the sun has been shining since early morning, filling roads with slush. With a wry grin, Elric predicts a fun afternoon for the Guards on duty, full of helping to pull stuck wheels out of the mud.

With a grocery list on the forefront of his mind, he meanders between carts, pausing now and then to examine a trinket or haggle over a price. His eyes, however, are drawn to every dark-haired woman with a long plait he sees in passing. He checks the final item off the list, handing the coins to the vendor, when the subject of his search says,

“Hello, Guardsman.”

Elric nearly drops the sack of turnips the merchant is giving him. He fumbles with it as he turns.

“Morrigan!” Taking her in, his eyes widen. The road mud welcomes his turnips with a slurping sound. “I didn’t…” _See you_ goes unsaid. His gaze skipped right over her just minutes ago, but that might not be the wisest thing to voice. “You look —” she arches her eyebrows, a small smile playing on her red lips “— cold,” Elric finishes and curses himself a fool.

Her eyebrows go even higher. “I am not, I assure you.”

Elric nods, bowing his head slightly. Instead of a sensible tunic laced up to the collar, she wears a flimsy contraption that barely covers her breasts, its purple fabric held together by leather cords. His gaze travels to the exposed skin of her midriff almost against his will, and Elric valiantly wrenches it back up. At least, she didn’t forgo the cloak, though she left it open. “If you are sure. Um… You cut your hair,” he says, mourning the loss of her long silky braid.

“Indeed.” Morrigan’s delicate fingers toy with her short ponytail; the sleeve of her cloak slides up to expose a thin wrist. The ends of her hair are uneven as if the witch used a knife instead of shears. She probably did. She looks at Elric from under her eyelashes. “You don’t approve?”

“No, no! It suits you.” The merchant clears his throat — loudly — and Elric finally bends down to retrieve his purchase. “Have you been here long?” he asks, stepping away from the vegetable cart and irate vendor. He ambles down the road.

“Long enough to find most of the wares I need,” Morrigan says, keeping pace with him.

Tilting his head to the side, he asks, “Have you eaten?”

Her smile returns, wider this time. “What do you have in mind?”

Elric smiles. She hasn’t turned down an offer of food even once since they started meeting at the market. Elric’s best guess is that she’s sick and tired of Flemeth’s cooking.

“Nevarran cuisine.” When Elric spotted it earlier, the smells alone made his mouth water and stomach growl, and not only because he had forgone breakfast. Leading Morrigan to a stall in the next row, Elric presents it with a grand gesture. “Ta!” he says, startling a man standing near it into biting his own fingers instead of his meal.

Throwing her head back, Morrigan laughs.

“Eh. Sorry, mate,” Elric says to the man, who shrugs in return, no hard feelings.

The vendor, a stoic man whose face might as well be made of stone for all its expressiveness, takes their order. Money exchange owners and they stand aside, now with a hot pita bread, full of juicy spiced meat and finely chopped vegetables in hand. They eat in comfortable silence, watching people go about their business, then, by unspoken agreement, continue their walk.

“I’m glad you could make it today.” Elric glances at her profile — the jagged fringe will take some getting used to — and sighs. “Ser Rylock will be here by the end of the week —”

Morrigan doesn’t let him finish. “Worried about me, Guardsman? You shouldn’t be.” She pointedly hefts her simple wooden staff, decorated with leather straps and feathers. Coupled with her clothes, it makes her look Chasind. Wild and dangerous. “I can take care of myself.”

“I do not doubt your abilities,” he says with an almost undetectable measure of exasperation. It is not a lie. He just doesn’t believe she’d last long alone against a group of templars. Of course, Elric knows better than to say that aloud. “However, I’d prefer to avoid unnecessary bloodshed in the market. Scares the merchants off, you know?” he adds with a wry grin, which she answers, just barely. “I was going to say that I’m taking Stiles to Denerim.”

“Oh.” Morrigan looks away. A slight blush colours her cheeks. “I see.”

Changing the topic, Elric says, “I’ve received worrying reports from the Ostagar outpost. There have been darkspawn sightings.”

“’Tis nothing new.” Morrigan looks at him from the corner of her eye. “I have seen them twice this year myself.”

“Four incidents in a month, and it weren’t only lone stragglers, either. Our patrols came upon a large group just this week.”

This stops her in her track. “’Tis bad news, indeed.” She bites her lower lip, thinking, and Elric watches her expression harden. “Mother has been saying strange things lately.”

“Flemeth, cryptic? How unlike her.”

Morrigan huffs. _“‘Food is not worth having if someone else has chewed it first.’_ Same as knowledge —”

“You have to come to a conclusion yourself. Yes, I get it. Doesn’t mean your mother isn’t frustrating.” He hasn’t actually seen Flemeth in years, but from what Morrigan tells him, she could stand to be less vague.

“That she can be, yes,” Morrigan says with a smirk, then frowns, a shadow falling over her face. “It might be nothing, but…” With a faraway look in her eyes, she starts walking again, murmuring, “No, ’tis definitely a possibility.”

“Morrigan?”

She flinches, startled out of her thoughts. Their gazes cross. Her pupils are dilated, black almost swallows the yellow of her irises, and with a startling clarity, Elric realises that she is scared. “Soon, we might face a Blight.”

Villagers part around them like a river flow confronted with a large rock. A child laughs, pointing at something on the other side of the square; a customer haggling over a swatch of fabric hurls insults at a merchant, the conflict threatening to escalate further. Caught by Morrigan’s mesmerising eyes, Elric pays them no mind. Gently, he squeezes her upper arm, lingering too long to be polite, lets go.

“Let’s hope it won’t come to that.” But even as he says it, doubt creeps into his heart. Looking around, he sees a stall with mulled wine and, trying to dispel the mood, buys them drinks. They spend some time making small talk: Elric tells her the news and rumours while Morrigan offers comments in her usual acerbic manner that, after dealing with bureaucracy all morning, he finds pleasantly refreshing.

Finally, Elric decides it’s time to give her a tightly wrapped bundle he carried everywhere for the last three days. Inside his gloves, his palms are sweating. “This is for you. Happy early First Day.”

“A gift?” Morrigan feigns surprise well. “How thoughtful of you.”

Elric smiles. “You say it every time.”

“Consider it a tradition.” She, too, gives him a bundle that — he knows without looking — contains two large vials: a healing potion and Quiet Death, same combination as every previous year. They share an appreciation of the symmetry.

Morrigan’s surprise turns genuine, however, as soon as she unwraps his present. “A golden mirror.” Her tone is one of wonder. “I… Thank you.” Holding it reverently by the handle, her fingers caress the beautiful floral ornament of the frame.

Elric releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “You like it. Good.”

“Yes, it is… wonderful.” She looks at him, a gentle, fragile smile on her face, and Elric sees wetness in the corners of her eyes. “When I was a girl, I ventured to the edge of the Wilds in an animal form,” she says. “Once, I happened upon a noblewoman by her carriage, adorned in sparkling garments the likes of which I have never seen before. I was dazzled. This, to me, seemed what true wealth and beauty must be.” She pauses to gauge his reaction and, seeing his interest, continues, “I snuck up behind her and stole a hand mirror from the carriage. ’Twas encrusted in gold and crystalline gemstones, and I hugged it to my chest with delight as I sped back to the Wilds.”

Elric frowns. He can see it all too vividly and can’t imagine Flemeth as an indulgent parent. “This story doesn’t have a happy ending, I take it.”

Morrigan raises a shoulder in a half-shrug. “Depends on your perspective. Flemeth was furious with me. I was a child and I had risked discovery for the sake of a pretty bauble. Flemeth took the mirror and smashed it on the ground. I was devastated.” She swallows. “But for my younger self, it was a valuable lesson. Beauty is fleeting and has no meaning.”

His frown deepens as she speaks until his expression is close to thunderous. Cursing the old hag in his head, Elric says, “I wish your mother could have found a gentler way of teaching it.”

“’Tis no matter, now.” Morrigan shakes her head as if to brush off the memories. “This mirror is exactly the same.” Her free hand finds his, intertwining their fingers. “I will treasure it, Elric.”

The use of his name, added to the sincerity of her words and the vulnerable look in her eyes, make his heart stutter and skip a beat. His chest feels too tight and at the same time painfully open. She is not a young girl he met in the Wilds anymore, but their relationship is a careful dance, full of little steps and long stretches of time between meetings. They are… friends. For now. Perhaps, forever.

All Elric says as he runs his thumb over her knuckles is, “You are welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second part will be from Stiles' perspective and will actually take place in Denerim.
> 
> [Quiet Death](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Quiet_Death) is one of the most potent poisons.  
> [Meditations and Odes to Bees](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_Meditations_and_Odes_to_Bees) Dragon Age style  
> The minstrel with bee fixation recited different Odes to Bees, including [Ode to Bees by Pablo Neruda](http://odetobeesproject.weebly.com/ode-to-bees.html), which while to my unrefined taste is fine poetry isn’t fit for a medieval tavern audience.


End file.
